


Bastard of Godsgrace

by sifshadowheart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Callous and Blatant Disregard for Canon, Dorne, He Is a Warning All by Himself, M/M, Male Slash, Mpreg, Multi, Oberyn Martell - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Rhoynar History and Magic, Slash, Slow Burn, canon and non-canon relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-24 23:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14964372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifshadowheart/pseuds/sifshadowheart
Summary: Fate has a thing or two to say about one of her favorites dying before his time.  And, after all, there's worse things she could do to Harry Potter than turn him into the Bastard of Godsgrace...  A/U Slash Possible MPreg Slow Burn





	1. Bastard of Godsgrace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarLight_Massacre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarLight_Massacre/gifts).



** Bastard of Godsgrace **

**A Harry Potter/Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire Crossover**

**_By Sif Shadowheart_ **

Disclaimer: Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire and Harry Potter belong to their respective authors, publishers, etc.  This is merely a work of fan-authored fiction with no claims to anything except for original characters and storylines used.

**Warning!  This story contains SLASH and is massive A/U as well as being Dorne-centric!**

**_Introduction:_**   This takes place in an altered pre-series timeline for GoT/ASoIaF.  I’ve changed a couple of things around, most notably do to with the War of the Ninepenny Kings.  Most of the main changes revolve around two specific characters and their stories diverging from canon and how their altered fates changes the rest of the ASoIaF world.  Ripples, butterfly effect, et al.

The first is the titular character the “Bastard of Godsgrace.”

The second is Aerys Targaryen.

Enjoy!

**Prologue: Born Admist Smoke and Salt**

_Bloodstone, The Stepstones, 260 A.C._

Ryon Allyrion, the heir of House Allyrion of Godsgrace and squire to Lord Edgar Yronwood – who would also one day be his goodfather after he married his daughter Ynys – staggered in shock towards the billowing silks and canvas of the Dornish encampment.

The battle – the final of the War of the Ninepenny Kings if they were lucky – had been nothing short of bloody.

Far too bloody for a thirteen-year-old squire who before leaving with the other Dornish spearmen to take up arms against the Band of Nine along with men from the rest of Westeros, had never seen combat.

He’d been separated from the lord and knight he served – and would continue to serve until he was of age to be knighted himself and return to his home of Godsgrace – during the battle, though he hoped to find Lord Edgar well if bloodied in the encampment.

Camp followers were already fluttering around the winning combatants, maesters and septas flocking to the battlefield to care for the wounded or the dead.

War was nothing like the stories or the songs.

Ryon knew that now.

Ryon knew many things that he hadn’t any idea of when he’d left Godsgrace after last visit to his family before meeting Lord Edgar and the Dornish spearmen at Sunspear to sail for the Stepstones.

He was still a boy, he knew that.

But he wasn’t innocent.

Not anymore.

Battles, including this last that had seen both Maelys the Monsterous, the final of the Blackfyre pretenders, and Crown Prince Aerys fall, had seen to that.

Well.

Battles and the camp followers anyway.

One of whom, though he didn’t yet know it, nor would it matter at that moment even if he did, labored admist the smoke from the burning encampment on the other side of Bloodstone island and the salty blood-laden air.

He would come to know of her labor however.

And of her death in childbed after birthing a bastard boy with deep sea-green eyes and rich brown hair with the rich bronze skin of a Dornishman.

A Dornishman born to a line known for a particular birthmark in the shape of a hand the size of a copper over their heart.

The mark of House Allyrion of Godsgrace.

And one Ryon Allyrion, all of thirteen and having lost his virginity to a particular camp follower of fine Lyseni bones and sea-green eyes, was the only Allyrion of Godsgrace to have spent the last year fighting in the Stepstones along with his fostering lord…and future goodfather.

That child was lucky in a sense.

The Dornish don’t treat bastardry the same as the other six kingdoms of Westeros.

Had he been born a Stone or a Flowers or a Rivers and so on, and not a Sand, his life would have been one of little consequence, likely not lasting long at all on the brutal Stepstones.

Instead, he’d been born to a too-young squire of a Dornish noble House.

His father, when the whore-midwife of the camp dumped his two-day-old son in his arms without ado after remembering the birthmark – and where she’d seen it before – named him Haeron Sand and his future goodfather merely rolled his eyes at the panic on his ward’s young face, his friend Prince Doran Nymeros Martell laughing helplessly at the sight and sent his page off to find a wet-nurse for the boy.

He would be raised at Godsgrace, at least until he was old enough to serve as a page, an honor that Prince Doran offered the infant then-and-there if he survived to reach nine years of age.

Ryon was his closest friend after all, both serving as pages to House Dayne of Starfall before their fostering and squiring for their separate foster lords had been arranged.  As close as a brother given that Doran’s only living – thus far – siblings were toddlers.  And so it was agreed, though no promise of serving as a squire to the future ruling Prince of Dorne was made.

Haeron had the great misfortune of being born a bastard, this was true.

But it had been matched with nearly-equal good luck of being born a bastard of Dorne…and that was a different creature entirely.

His grandmother wasn’t _pleased_ at her son’s sowing of seed in the Stepstones having taken root, but she accepted babe Haeron to Godsgrace with equanimity and set plans for him to be taught all the things a child of noble blood should learn from languages to sums to the sword and spear.

They weren’t savage, careless Westerosi after all.

They were of Dorne.

Unbowed, unbent, and unbroken.

…

_Graveyard, Little Hangleton, England; 24 June 1995_

The pain eventually stopped, even as his body continued to writhe under a _Crucio_ cast by one of the most powerful wizards alive – well, alive was relative given the near-corpse appearance of the reborn Lord Voldemort.

It left a soul-deep cold in its wake, even as Harry’s jaw snapped under the strain of refusing that bloody bastard the pleasure of hearing him scream.

Harry knew what it meant, that cold.

But even as he realized the truth of what had happened as a result of yet another Wormtail fuck-up, Harry tucked the thought away behind his pain, taking no chances that Voldemort might pluck it from his mind.

It wouldn’t do for him to know.

Not when the knowing would force his hand, likely resulting in something _so much worse_ that what would happen if Harry kept his counsel and simply…let go.

He was just so _tired_.

Tired of everything.

He was fourteen years old, and he felt ancient.

His body hurt.

Hurt to the point where more days than not he was in constant pain, only stopping to take a paracetamol nicked from his aunt or a pain potion once it climbed passed the point of ignoring it and carrying on with his day.

But that was _nothing_ at all compared to the rest of him.

Harry was tired.

He was hurt.

But above all…he was done.

So no, he didn’t show by word, deed, or thought that he knew he was bleeding out from Wormtail’s fumbling with the silver dagger.

That rather than a simple bleed, Pettigrew had severed full veins just below his elbow, allowing the boy bound to a tombstone to already be half-dead by the time Voldemort arose and turned his wand on him.

That the _Crucio_ Voldemort had turned on him after failing to – even half-dead – force Harry to submit had finished the work Wormtail’s piss-poor knife skills had begun, forcing more and more blood to rush from his veins as his body shook and snapped under the Dark Lord’s wand.

No, he just let nature take its course.

Let himself… _go_.

Why should he continue to fight after all, when the only ones who’d ever done so for him were already dead and gone?

He felt a bit of distant sadness over Sirius.

He knew this would likely finish the job of breaking his godfather’s sanity.

But, though he’d never admit it, part of him _blamed_ Sirius as well.

Felt it was fitting.

After all…if Sirius had put Harry first over his revenge, Harry would _have_ a reason to fight.

A reason to live.

Shoddy turncloak friendships and a future of being alternately worshipped and reviled certainly weren’t enough of a reason to worry about the distant notion of escape…not when a leave-taking of a different kind was so very close.

Lord Voldemort screamed with rage when he realized, then sent the bodies of the two dead champions back via portkey with a Morsemorde burned into Potter’s cheek below his infamous scar.

People panicked.

A war was fought and then ended.

And life continued on, as it always did, despite any tragedy that might befall a single soul.

That might have been that.

Except there was just _one_ hitch in the grand design.

Harry Potter was never meant to die until 2 May 1998.

And gods knew…fate _hated_ loose threads in their design.

…

_Elsewhere_

“Well?”  The strange voice demanded.  “Wake up!  I don’t have all century to fix this you know!”

If it weren’t for the lack of pain, Harry would think that all that had come before was just a dream.

That he hadn’t died from a combination of Voldemort’s lunacy and Wormtail’s incompetency.

That he hadn’t lived most of his life in pain.

That he hadn’t died before ever really _living_ at all.

But…he wasn’t in pain.

That meant that he wasn’t awake…per se.

The banshee howling in his ear put paid to the idea of him hallucinating but at the same time when he’d thought about what came _after_ , a screaming voice certainly wasn’t what he thought of…unless the Dursleys had actually been _right_ about something for-fucking-once and he’d actually gone straight to hell with “the rest of his freakish kind.”

“None of that!”  The same voice snapped, as if hearing his thoughts.  “Get the fuck up, kid, I can’t fix this shit alone.  Well, I could.”  It corrected itself, the voice being a strange tone that lacked any real identification but still sounded alive unlike the dull monotone of a computer-generated tone.  “But since it’s _your life_ that’s on the table I thought you’d like some input…”

Now _that_ was the exact right thing to say to get him to come fully awake…or whatever…from his foggy-fugue state.

Eyes snapping open, Harry looked around and saw nothing but grey.

Slowly sitting up, he craned his head around as he swung his legs down from the slab of… _something_ he’d been splayed out on, spying a strange figure in a long purple cloak with golden edging staring at a massive tapestry and cursing under its breath at a snarled ball of broken strings.

Broken strings that were every shade of grey but with a rare single string here-and-there in a rich red or a gleaming silver or any other color found on Earth.

It was beautiful beyond imagining…except for the aforementioned snarl.

“Well?”  The figure, who was the owner of the voice, snapped, seeming to tap one foot impatiently under the hooded purple and gold cloak.  “Are you going to get over here to help or not, kid?  To avoid the endless rounds of questions and denials,” it continued in that same snappish, impatient manner as Harry stood, noticing in part of his mind that he was wearing a plain robe – no hood – in the same endless grey as everything else except the figure and the tapestry its quick-clever hands were plucking at: smoothing one thread here, snipping another there, tying off a loose end, and so on faster that Harry could really track for the most part.  “I’m Fate, you’re dead, and yes, this is _really_ happening.”

“Fate like _the_ Fate?”  He finally choked out after he finished hyperventilating as the figure scoffed and mocked him under its breath.

“Yes.”  Fate snapped.  “Now: are you going to help me with this or not?  I’m a busy being you know.  Lots of worlds and realms and ‘verses to keep an eye on, especially with meddling fuckers like your former Headmaster fucking with my design every other fucking second.”

Fate was bad tempered and cursed like a sailor, Harry noted arching a brow.

It was actually comforting in a way.

And explained, _so fucking much_.

“I’m dead.”  Harry told the… _being_ deadpan.  “How am I supposed to help you now?”

The underlying _haven’t I done enough_ didn’t really need to be said to the being that had supposedly overseen the fate of his entire world, not just him.

Fate knew.

For once he didn’t have to explain a thing.

Fate knew.

“That’s the mess I’m trying to fix, kid.”  Fate told him, exasperation oozing from every inch of the figure, the tangle slowly growing less and less of an eyesore as the being worked on its giant loom, eventually all that was left was a single loose thread in a color Harry knew all too well: rich emerald green; that it teased from the tangle and twined around its fingers so it wouldn’t be lost to the grey void surrounding them.

Flicking its wrist at the loom, Fate sent it away then summoned one after another with snaps of its unoccupied hand as it explained the “mess” to Harry.

“You weren’t supposed to die in that graveyard.”  Fate told him, its eternal frustrations over dealing with _humans_ leaking through.  “That stupid little bipedal rodent cut too deep.  That’s the first problem.”  It sighed.  “And with your body dead, your thread cut, I can’t just stick your soul back and call it all good, that’s not how Fate works.  But still,” Fate lifted the hand that had, a shiver went down his spine, _Harry’s thread_ wrapped around it in emphasis.  “I can’t just let you fade into nothing either.  That’s _also_ not how Fate works.”

“Then what’s the solution?”  Harry asked, trying to sum up some feeling of… _something_ but coming up blank.  Honestly, whatever decision Fate came up with, he’d deal with it.  It wasn’t like there was really anything he could _do_ about it anyway.

Not that there _ever_ had been before either.

And yes, Harry was aware that he sounded more than a little bitter, even if only to himself.

“Your body is out of the question.”  Fate told him, temper seemingly settled for the moment now that the snarl was taken care of, turning now to a more brisk, no-nonsense type of tone.  “And I really rather _doubt_ you were so enamored with your world that you want to go back to it if you have another choice.  The problem is finding a being close _enough_ but destined to die so that I can slip _your_ thread into the weave without causing an even bigger problem elsewhere.”

“So…”  Harry drawled, trying to keep up.  “You’re looking for another me?”

“Destiny _no_.”  Fate sniffed, wincing.  “That would be a disaster.  No.  I’m not looking to replace you with you.  But someone _close_ enough in the basics that it would go unremarked if your thread was slipped in.  Or a world different enough that it wouldn’t be noticed….yes…”  Fate murmured, Harry very much getting the feeling that the being was in need less of Harry’s help than a sounding board.  “That might be the best way.”  The being gave a quick double-snap of its fingers and a new loom appeared, Fate humming a pleased note at the sight.

It was fashioned of a deep gleaming grey that Harry had never seen the like of before in his life, while the tapestry itself…it was total dichotomy mixed with a sense of chaos, much wilder than the one that his premature death had fouled up so thoroughly.

At the top of the tapestry were all shades of icy whites and blues and greys while at the bottom were those of fire: oranges and yellows, purples and whites and reds; and in the midst of it all a pattern emerged in rich greys and greens and colors of earth.

It was magnificent.

And as Fate had said…very different than the design that Harry’s thread had originally belonged to, even as he watched new threads be woven in by the loom working seemingly on its own and others being slipped and fastened tight, then with a wave of Fate’s hand it all stopped and the being leaned closer to examine the threads that were just-cut or about to be, rattling off options – or so it seemed – to Harry.

“Let’s see, what do we have available?”  Fate mused, trailing a finger along the edges of the tapestry.  “Does the life of a war lord or an inbred king have any appeal kid?”

Harry made a face at that, Fate somehow seeing it despite facing the tapestry and giving other options.

“We also have soldiers of all sorts, a woman dying in childbirth…”  It muttered then exclaimed.  “Oh!  How about a true fresh start?”  Fate asked, turning towards Harry though he still couldn’t see what face – if any – belonged to the figure.

“What, like a baby?”

“Exactly like a baby.”  Fate enthused, nodding.  “A newborn, destined to die within moments of its mother.  Shame really.  Kid was the sort that could literally become whatever it wanted short of royalty.”

Now _that_ sounded tempting even if the idea of being a _baby_ again was less than tempting.

“Think about it.”  Fate continued to persuade the teen.

Which not at all had anything to do with this being another one of Fate’s “project” worlds that it liked to play with to see just how frigging _early_ it had to off Aerys-the-fucking-Mad-King before the World of Ice and Fire stopped imploding.  Thus far in other “project” worlds patterned off of the first one but with playing with different threads to see the problems, Fate had learned just how pivotal Aerys had been.

Almost as pivotal as his son really.

Killing Aerys before Robert’s Rebellion kept the entire world from facing apocalypse, but this was the first time he’d cut the thread and given some of the excess to his parents Jaehaerys and Shaera.

A project.

And since it was already a project…well.

Adding another thread to the weave wasn’t as big of a hassle as it could be otherwise.

Besides.

Fate truly believed that Harry would like the life he could choose to live as the infant grew.

Another life would never come to fruition if Harry agreed, but that life wasn’t all that pivotal.  A supporting thread, with little impact on the world around it.  Not that big of a deal in Fate’s design and whatever little impact it had, Harry could easily take over.

The kid deserved the shot at least.

Some versions of Harry might think he’s Fate’s bitch or punching bag, that Fate _enjoyed_ fucking with him, and that was kind of true but not at the same time.

Harry was _interesting_.

And to an eons old being like Fate, that was worth more than anything else.

So this time, Fate would edge the odds a little in Harry’s favor.

It wasn’t like Death was going to bitch.

The stuffy fucker always hated reaping the kid.

And now there would be decades or more before that ever happened.

“You’d have a family.”  Fate explained a little about the infant Harry would be agreeing to take over.  “A really young father, more like an older brother, but still: a father.  Grandparents, cousins, a step-mom and half-siblings eventually.”  Fate continued the sell, even knowing that the family was the hook.  The rest was just bait.  “You’d have a similar background to your original one: your father is nobility and your mother common-born but beautiful.  You’d be educated, allowed to choose your own path.  In your world you were Welsh and English with a helping of Punjabi, in your new one you’d have a similar racial mix only: Lyseni with Andal and Rhoynar.  Thanks to that Lyseni and Rhoynar you might learn some water magics or weather magics depending on if you have the aptitude for it so you wouldn’t even have to leave magic behind you: they still have it in this world and its acknowledged to exist even though its rare.”

“What kind of magic?”  Harry asked, eyes narrowing in interest.  “You said I _might_ have water or weather magic thanks to part of the background but what others are there?”

“All kinds but nothing like wizarding magic.”  Fate told him honestly.  “It’s wilder than that there thanks to the odd seasonal shifts from the ley lines the continent your father calls home has.  Elsewhere in that world the seasons are more like what you’re used to.  It’s only Westeros that’s fucked up from the magical ley lines screwing the weather.”

“What kind of person would my father be?”  Harry asked, even as his heart ached.  “You said he was young and noble?”

“He is.”  Fate nodded, fashioning an illusion of Ryon Allyrion for Harry to view.  “You would be his first-born son, born outside of wedlock to a camp follower while he was at war with his people against some war lords.”

“Young?”  Harry asked in exasperation.  “He’s my age if not younger!”

“And?”  Fate snorted.  “He’s not exactly the first teenager in the world to have a baby.  And he’s going to have a son out of wedlock either way: you now or another later.  But if he has you then he’ll be more careful and not get himself into trouble with a nobleborn girl in a couple years and _that_ boy won’t be alive to fall into a political plot that kills him because he loved the wrong grasping princess.”

Harry scowled.

Fate was playing on his saving people thing for a person who didn’t even _exist_ …and wouldn’t if Fate had its way.

“What’s the other alternative or is that it?”  Harry asked.  “Newborn baby or dying soldier?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”  Fate gave a shrug.  “I could make you a slave or a slave-child but I don’t think you’d enjoy _that_ very much.”

Harry gave a snarl under his breath.

He’d already been a slave in his, he could barely believe it and still half-thought it was a delusion, _first-life_ , he wasn’t going to fucking volunteer for the shit in his second.

“Being a bastard is usually a problem for nobility though isn’t it?”  He checked, self-preservation instincts on high-alert.

“In some places of this world: yes.” Fate answered simply.  “Not in Dorne where your father is from however.  Can’t inherit unless you end up being legitimized but otherwise you’ll be treated just the same for the most part as a trueborn child of your father.”

“Why do I have a feeling like my consent is more for show than anything?”  Harry sighed.

“Because you’re not fucking stupid.”  Fate snorted.  “I’ll have to make it so your memories come back slow, a baby’s brain isn’t developed enough to deal with the sum of fourteen years of life.  But you’ll still be _you_ , and Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Try and fucking enjoy your second life, yeah?”  Fate’s voice softened.  “It’s not often I get to give one of my favorites a second chance.”

And with that, Fate’s dexterous fingers wove the emerald green thread together with one of soft sea blue-grey, creating a pretty and bold sea blue-green color, Harry’s figure glowing bright in the dim grey of Fate’s void and then shimmering away.

Meanwhile, on Bloodstone, a stillborn baby sucked in a deep breath and gave its first screaming cry, living despite all odds otherwise, not the least of which was being born weeks early and to a camp-follower mother who slipped away along with her hemorrhaging placental abruption.

And over his heart, about the size of a penny, was a birthmark in the shape of a hand on bronze skin.

…

_Godsgrace, Dorne, Last Moon 260 AC_

Lady Delonne Allyrion stood strong and proud at the gates of Godsgrace to welcome her only son and heir home from victory in the Stepstones against the Band of Nine.

Her Ryon was young, only thirteen name days old, but already had been blooded in battle, a distinction he shared with his closest friend – and future ruling Prince of Dorne – Prince Doran.  Her husband had wanted to venture to the Stepstones as well, but the Targaryen King Jaehaerys had only demanded ten thousand spears from Dorne, a number easily fulfilled between the Martells, Daynes, and Yronwoods without having to pluck any further forces from the other noble and knightly houses.  Squads of all the houses had gone of course.  It wouldn’t do for the Westerosi to realize that only three houses had called up ten thousand men – and even that wasn’t the whole of the garrisons belonging to those three houses.

Every banner of Dorne – for the most part – had been seen in the Stepstones.

Including the golden hand on red-and-black of House Allyrion on her son’s banner and breast.

Granted, with him being only twelve when he arrived and thirteen returning, she hadn’t anticipated that he would return with a new member of House Allyrion.

Still, there were worse results from sending a boy to war than having him return with a natural child.

Such as having him fail to return at all.

Her husband Daemon, he who was from a cadet line of House Allyrion, and the commander of her men-at-arms gave a cheer as the banner of House Allyrion was spotted making the turn through the bustling city of Godsgrace, named for the stronghold of House Allyrion that it had grown around in the rich fertile valley of where the Scourge and the Vaith joined as one to create the Greenblood.

Delonne’s son rode tall and strong on his sand steed, a small bundle in a sling at his front, having grown in the last year-plus that he had been absent from his home.

The smallfolk and the men-at-arms and various cousins took up Daemon’s cheer, a smile breaking across Delonne’s sun-bronzed face.

Her son was home, his own son in his arms.

Oh, yes.

There were much worse outcomes indeed.

Though if she had to guess, she would venture that despite the national state of mourning they all were ostensibly under with the death of the Crown Prince Aerys, only his own parents truly missed the wild dragonblood of the Iron Throne.

Crown Prince Rhaegar was too young for any to be certain of course, but whispers reached even the oases and deserts of Dorne that their new crown prince was a quieter sort than his father had been.

All to the good, so long as his grandfather King Jaehaerys held out long enough for Rhaegar to reach an age where the Iron Throne wouldn’t fall to regency upon his death.

Jaehaerys had always been sickly, though it seemed losing his son rather than breaking him had given him purpose: he couldn’t succumb to weakness with his line pruned down to an uncle at the Wall, a single daughter, and a grandson beyond his own wife who had never been a fertile or strong woman herself despite running off to marry her beloved brother rather than a Baratheon.

Yes.

There were worse things for House Allyrion than to have her son return with a bastard son while being hardly more than a babe himself.

Delonne beamed as her Ryon swung down from his horse, one arm locked around his precious bundle to steady the babe that peered all around in interest despite being only two turns of age, taking them both in her arms and smacking kisses to both sets of downy cheeks.

Scolds over camp followers could come later.

For now, there was a feast to dine upon and songs to be sung and a grandson to meet.

Everything else can be worked out in time.

…

Fate had been right, Harry decided.

Being a bastard son in Dorne wasn’t that bad.

If anything…it was remarkably freeing.

The first thing he really remembers about waking up as _himself_ was on a ship, sailing what he would later learn was up the Greenblood to his family’s home of Godsgrace.

He was Harry.

He had died and met Fate.

He had been reborn.

There wasn’t much more _there_ though he wasn’t confused by this, knowing, even if he wasn’t aware of it at the time, that it would come back.

 _He_ would come back.

The language around him was strange, being breast-fed by a wet nurse was stranger still, but nothing was as _odd_ as having a young teenaged father who would take him from his nurse’s arms every day after he’d woken and been fed and changed and would hold him close with an expression Harry easily tagged as a new-father’s terror, having seen it before on Mr. Jenkins four doors down a couple years before he… _died_.  His father toted him all around the ship, rough sailors chucking baby-Harry, or Haeron now he supposed, under his chin or pinching a cheek.  Harry wondered a bit at the flexibility of a baby’s brain as he soaked in all the languages around him – and there was more than one spoken on the ship – in his father’s arms or from the sling that was fashioned for him when he showed himself strong enough to hold it head up.

When he was hungry, he was fed.

When he was tired, he slept.

And when he cried…he was comforted for perhaps the first time in his memory.

Of those, more and more returned every day.

But he found it easy to separated himself from the broken child they had happened to either good or bad.

He took the lessons they taught him…but didn’t linger on the hurts or the joys.

Perhaps it was an extra bit of _something_ Fate had done to help him settle into being Haeron Sand instead of Harry Potter or a consequence of being a baby with the malleable mind and open heart that came with it, but either way, by the time the city of Godsgrace and the castle of the same was on the horizon, the architecture reminding Harry of India, where his father’s grandmother had called home in his first life, settle into being Haeron Sand he had as he started to understand some of the words his father and the others spoke around him from simple repetition.

So when his father propped him up against his chest and waved an arm to encompass all of the fertile fields and the rushing river and towering pale stone buildings and told him this was his home, he understood the sentiment if not the exact phrasing.

And when his grandmother took him and his father in her arms and cried tears of joy over them, he understood that as well, even as it soothed old hurts from an old life.

No, he would never forget all he’d learned as Harry Potter.

But he rather thought Fate had been right.

There were much worse things than to live the life of Haeron Sand, Bastard of Godsgrace.

…

 

_Author’s Note:_

The No. 1 question I got when I previewed this on Facebook (after pairing) was about Daemon Sand.  No, Harry’s not Daemon _but_ Daemon isn’t going to exist either as explained by Fate above.  The character I’m hand-waving into the story would be about fourteen (I think) years older than Daemon and with the pairing I have planned he _has_ to be otherwise it’s really not plausible at all with the age-difference…other than Oberyn.  I hope that makes sense.


	2. Chapter 2

** Bastard of Godsgrace **

_A/N: Haeron is pronounced like Heron: Hair-un, soft syllables._

_And remember: time keeping and dates are different in the GoT/ASoIaF world.  They go by moon-turns: full, new, half, etc. not months and a single season can be anywhere from a year to more than ten years long._

_A sennight equates to a week while a fortnight is two weeks._

**One: Bonds of Service and Friendship**

_The Water Gardens, Dorne, 271 A.C._

…

Being Haeron Sand was a blessing in disguise for Harry.

It wasn’t always easy.

There was _nothing_ easy about the first years of struggling through living in an infant and toddler’s body with the mind of a teenager that just kept _growing_ and learning and aging despite his (new) physical age.

No, there was nothing at all easy about that.

But, as he grew and learned and had books placed in front of him (that he had to learn to read all _over_ again in more than one language, yippee, but at least he had the elasticity of an infant’s mind to do it with) and wooden weapons placed in his chubby hands and his bum put on a sand steed pony, he learned that, as per the usual way of things, it could always be _worse_.

He didn’t have his father’s name, which was something that mattered to some highborn in his new life more than others, most notably in the northern kingdoms of _Westeros_.

That lot north of the Red Mountains and the Boneway could apparently give a lesson or two on snooty pomposity to the stuffy purebloods he’d been more than happy to leave behind when his life was inadvertently shortened by the shaky knife-hand of a traitor coward.

His new world, his new _life_ was strange to him and not all at the same time.

After all, when you scrubbed right down to the base of things, he was surrounded by people that weren’t all that much different than those he’d left behind.

And in every case he saw were often an improvement.

Even the one that he wished with all his heart that it wasn’t so.

Sirius Black had once represented everything Harry had always wanted, most notably a family that wanted _him_.

The Westerosi version of a godfather on the other hand…

One would’ve had to look far and wide to find a better example of a Dornish warrior prince than a young Doran Nymeros-Martell, a foster-father once Harry turned nine that took his duties to his best-friend’s child _quite_ seriously.

He didn’t see much of his father at all in the first years after Ryon, Heir of Godsgrace, had delivered him into the care of his grandparents – and that was just fine the way he figured it.

Ryon was more of an age with Bill Weasley who he’d met all of twice to his former Harry Potter than an actual father anyway.

It was much simpler for _everyone_ involved to allow his Lady Grandmother and her knight Consort Lord to make decisions regarding Harry’s future – which was thus far as open and free as Lady Fate had promised – than to try and shoehorn a teenager into doing things such as plotting his lessons with the Maester and her husband the Master at Arms for the armies and guards of Godsgrace and then the head of the stables once he was old enough to ride.

And that remained true, as promised again – though by a lesser personage than a deity – until he turned nine namedays old.

Then, as Harry held up his part of things – albeit simply by not meeting a young and tragic death – he was sent off to Sunspear away from his lessons in being the blood of a family as bound to trade as they were to war, to those acquired in a royal court.  There he was schooled in Andahli, Old Rhoynish, High and Old Valyrian, and even Common Ghiscari (as his House, House Allyrion were both warriors and traders situated at the meeting of the Vaith and the Scourge where the two rivers joined together to create the great Greenblood that flowed to the sea) with old Maester Tyllen as he took up a position as a page in the household of Prince Doran Nymeros-Martell, the Heir of Sunspear and of Dorne itself, and continued his education in all that a highborn bastard of Dorne needed to know under the watchful black gaze of his father’s oldest friend and future liege lord.  From weapons to riding to accounts to trade, all of it was laid out before him in the stone walls of Sunspear and the graceful arched halls of the Water Gardens.

Harry wasn’t the _only_ noble child fostered as a page or cupbearer at Sunspear or the Water Gardens by either the Ruling Princess Myriah Nymeros-Martell, her consort Ser Tristofor Gargalen of Salt Shore, or her only child old enough to warrant a household of his own, her knighted and man-grown son and heir Doran, not by any means.

There were children representing every noble house – high or low – as well as more than a few wealthy merchant families or landed knightly houses of Dorne flooding into the seat of Dorne with every turn of the year.

Harry, however, was the only boy of his age group aside from one that was the responsibility of Prince Doran himself – and unlike his new friend he’d made at all of nine namedays old, Arthur Dayne the second son of the current Lord Dayne of Starfall – he was set to join his Prince for more than the brief two or three years of service as a page but to stay with the Prince as a member of his house until he was either knighted or released at the Prince’s leisure.

They had two good years riding, learning, and running errands (and amok) under the Prince’s amused eyes before the day inevitably came where their parting was set.

Harry, because Prince Doran hadn’t found himself favoring any of the Dornish _or_ Westerosi beauties presented forward for his potential bride and consort and wished to undertake a tour of the Free Cities before seriously considering marriage (he _was_ only twenty-four now to Harry’s eleven) and Arthur…well.

Arthur was to squire for none other than a Knight of the Kingsguard, the highest possible placement for _any_ squire, especially considering _who_ was to take up the charge of fashioning the next Sword of Morning.

At present the White Cloaks only boasted one such man willing to take on the challenge in Prince Doran’s uncle – and the ruling Princess’s younger brother – Prince Lewyn Martell who’d not taken on a squire in sometime before being impressed with the skills of Harry’s best friend with a sword during a leave to visit family undertaken the year before by the Prince.

Though Ser Barristan the Bold or Ser Gerold the White Bull might’ve done as well, they were bound to other charges than mentoring a Dayne of Starfall.

So, Harry would venture to Essos with his Prince and Arthur to Kings Landing with his own.

And all of Sunspear let out a breath of relief that the troublesome duo was gone from causing mischief in the shadow town or bruising each other to the point of drawing blood – blunted practice steel or not – in the practice ring.

For while Harry may _not_ have the innate talent of his friend for dual-wielding swords, that didn’t mean he let the arrogant prat out of eating dirt every chance he had to serve it up to him.

They were _eleven_ , not two, and left with little to do for their Prince as pages in a household already overflowing with servants as that of the ruling princess’s other than follow either Prince Doran’s or the Master-at-Arm’s directions for exercises to strengthen them or teach discipline, really, what was anyone _really_ expecting to happen?

…

The sound of pounding feet running down the sandstone-tiled halls of the Water Gardens’ wide-open rooms drew Harry’s attention from his packing.

Were he a page-cum-squire to anyone _but_ a Prince of Dorne about to embark on a journey set to take him away from his home and lands for at least a year he would’ve been packing for his current liege lord for _days_ in preparation for the trip.  As it was, the Princess Myriah would have none but the best servitors her household boasted managing her heir’s luggage and weapons and armor that were – likely – already loaded onto the Dornish flagship the _Shining Spear_ that would be his and Prince Doran’s home-away-from-home for moon turn after moon turn.  A reality that left Harry feeling more than a little nostalgic as he packed a trunk at eleven years old – for the second time or really twenty-five but whatever – and prepared to say goodbye to everything he knew to adventure into a whole new world.

Essos from Westeros might as well be the far side of the world for all that most Westerosi understand or deal with the Essosi while the lands beyond Asshai or the Jade Sea or gods-forbid _Sothyros_ were the dark side of the moon in terms of ease of travel.

This time, however, Harry wasn’t _wholly_ unprepared for what he was getting into.

Neither was he venturing into the unknown _alone_ or leaving no one behind him for him to miss or to miss him.

No, Haeron Sand _was_ loved by his family.

Haeron Sand had friends.

And the next two years – give or take; pirates, weather, and the gods permitting – would likely be a _much_ more enlightening use of his time than his years from eleven to thirteen had been the first time around.

For one, there wasn’t a madman or his cultists out for his blood.

For another, unlike _others_ , Prince Doran – while distant at times – had been just as invested in the education of Harry as someone would expect from both a sworn liege lord and best-friend of his father to be.

Fortunately, learning was a _lot_ easier when you didn’t have to pretend to be stupid to keep from getting the shit kicked out of you – or starved – by your relatives or your “friends” getting in a huff over it.

Harry would never be as devoted to his studies of dust-dry histories or economics tomes as the Maesters might prefer, this was true.

But when his study time was broken up with weapons practice and horse-riding practice and dozens of other activities that _weren’t_ being stuffed into a dreary classroom all day for five days a week he found attempting to digest dust-dry tristes on crop rotation practices in the Reach a _lot_ more palatable.

Thankfully, no one expected to make a Lord of him either for all his lofty paternal connections.

He _was_ only eleven and had plenty of time to decide but already thought that rising to become the Master-of-Arms for his two-nameday-old half-brother one day would be _more_ than high enough for him rather than chasing ambitions to the Kingsguard like his friend Arthur who got a little dazzle-eyed over stories of the likes of Barristan the Bold or Duncan the Tall or _worse_ Arthur’s brother Artos who would be expected to take over one day as the Lord of Starfall.

There wasn’t much that sounded more drop-dead- _boring_ – whether he was eleven or a hundred-and-eleven – than being a lofty lord of a castle with some stuck-up highborn bride to fuss over and placate at every turn.

Though, granted, his opinion _might_ be a bit colored by some of the stories told in his new homeland about the ways of the Northerners, particularly those of the Reach, Westerlands, Riverlands, Crownlands, and Vale.

Honestly, other than the beaten-down rock-and-salt wives of the Ironborn and the fierce-but-frosty ladies of the North, Harry didn’t think having a highborn bride was quite the _treat_ or honor that the songs and stories tried to sell it as.

The silver hair and violet eyes of his friend Arthur – which, strangely enough, was credited to the strong blood of the “First Men” rather than that of Old Valyria running through the Daynes of Starfall – rushed through the door of the room the pair always shared in either Sunspear or the Water Gardens as Arthur wasn’t going to be but a day or two behind Harry’s own departure and had packing to take care of – and more besides as it was unlikely that Arthur would ever return to the Martell holdings for more than a visit no matter whether his Kingsguard ambitions were realized or not upon becoming a man and distinguishing himself to noble – or royal – eyes.

Though of the latter there was a distinct _lack_ showing in the last decade in the environs of Westeros.

House Targaryen with the death of their former Crown Prince Aerys at the same battle during which Harry was given entrance into this world, had been pared down to only a scant four members and was in no rush to correct itself.

Indeed, if the rumors regarding the King and Queen’s sickly nature – that many were surprised had lived as close to middle age as they’d _already_ accomplished through what was likely nothing short of Fate’s design – were true and Princess Rhaella’s intractable nature held out against all entreaties to take a new husband to father spare-heirs to the throne (likely out of fear – rightful or not – that said-spares might attempt to usurp her current-son’s claim) resulted in the Seven Kingdoms and the hopes of a dynasty resting solely on the shoulders of Prince Rhaegar, a twelve-namedays-old Crown Prince just a year older than Harry and given – according to rumor – more to bookishness than martial ability.

Rumors that the Crown Prince’s squiring for Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had yet to dispel despite beginning several moon-turns prior.

Harry quirked a half-smile at his silver-haired best-friend as the boy who’d taught him just as much about wielding paired short swords – neither having the height for longswords as of yet in pairs – as he had about what passed for Dornish dirty jokes and bar songs leapt for his tidily made bed with a groan and a heavy sigh.

“Not looking forward to squiring for Prince Lewyn on the Kingsguard any longer?”  Harry teased, knowing full well that the only thing that would’ve made his father’s arranged mentor for the young Dayne better was for it to be Ser Barristan Selmy himself.  In lieu of that honor – Selmy the stingiest regarding the taking of squires of any of the knights of the Kingsguard – he’d had to make due with the sole Dornish member of the venerable institution _and_ squiring alongside the Crown Prince.  The poor baby.

Meanwhile, Harry had weeks and weeks of possible seasickness, storms, and windburn to look forward to in the service of his “Uncle” Doran who was more of an age to be an elder brother than an actual authority figure no matter that the Prince had fulfilled such a role already for much of Harry’s life as Haeron.

That he was, actually, technically, almost the same age as the Prince didn’t really help matters.

That he also had never truly used a sword, ridden a horse, or any other of a half-hundred things a noble-born boy – even a bastard when said bastard was of Dorne – was supposed to be skilled in at least kept him from being bored and appreciating the rare times Doran, a fierce spear-fighter and knight of Sunspear, took the time to drill the pages in their basic routines.

As for the younger Martells, Harry’d never actually _met_ the youngest, Prince Oberyn, who was fostered/serving as a page at House Uller of Hellholt before squiring for their neighbors of House Qorgyle in Sandstone and rarely returned to visit his family due to a combination of duties and politics if he had to guess.

Princess Elia, however, was everything sweet and _good_ of a highborn lady from a song…though even she hadn’t managed to interest him in a highborn wife despite that she was beginning to leave her childish pretty-plainness behind and grow in a true dusky Dornish beauty.

Or so his grandmother said.

For Harry’s part, he had a hard time thinking of _anyone_ around him in that way and likely would continue to have that problem until they’d all at least grown – himself included – to adulthood.

His _body_ might be rediscovering the fresh hell that was puberty for the second time, but his mind was very much that of a man in his mid-twenties, _thanks ever so much_.

There would be no youthful fumbles with kitchen maids or curious lord’s daughters for his father and stepmother to worry over on his account.

What his toddler brother and eventual – Fate willing – other siblings got up to however, was _not going to be his problem_ when they entered the crucible that was teenage-hood in a medieval or even dark-ages society.

Harry knew nothing about younger siblings, let alone younger _sisters_ , and seeing the stress on Doran’s face whenever someone brought up making a match for Princess Elia he thanked Lady Fate that he’d yet to be bestowed with one in this life.

But, all that speculation aside, until the day came where he was called back to Godsgrace to take up the charge of Master-at-Arms for either his father or brother, he had a world to wander at the side of his Prince and strange lands to see.

And oddly enough, given that he once thought he’d had more than enough adventures for two lifetimes, he was strangely excited for this next chapter to begin.

“I’m going to miss you, you arsehole.”  Arthur shot back, complete with a flung pillow at his head as Harry closed and locked the top of the trunk.

Anything else would just have to fit in a canvas bag for him to tote into Prince Doran’s cabin – where, as his squire, Harry would have a pallet for the lengths of his Prince’s journey that took place aboard ship – despite his grandmother actually making arrangements for him to have a closet-sized room of his own for his things or whatever he might collect on his trip.

His place – and duty – was at Prince Doran’s side.

At least the closet-sized space would make for good storage, whatever else happened aside.

“Aww…”  Harry drawled, smirking and lobbing the feather-filled missile back at his friend.  “I’m _not_ going to miss your snoring.”

“I don’t snore!”  Arthur protested hotly, narrowing his purple eyes on his prat of a friend that now – with only one smart remark from an oft-cutting-tongue – he wasn’t so sure he was going to miss _at all_.

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes.

“ _Sure_ , you don’t…”

And just like that, Arthur was no longer concerned about his friend leaving with the morning tide.

He had a pillow-war to win against a vicious and tricksy opponent to focus on instead.

…

The next morning as they were awayed with the tide, Prince Doran reached over and plucked a single downy white feather out from the unruly mass of sun-kissed brown hair that had once been deep chocolate in color before being bleached and lightened by years playing and training under the Dornish sun.

“A memorable goodbye from your… _friend_?”  He smirked, cocking a brow.

Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation, having grown _more_ than used to what passed for friendly teasing from a Martell Prince over the last eleven years – especially once you managed to knock down a few of the walls Doran in particular kept raised as high as the Arryn’s vaunted honor.

Snagging it from his sponsor’s hand – Harry now dressed in the colored silks of House Martell instead of the inverted colors of House Allyrion, as was right and proper for a squire who was _right-and-properly_ outfitted by their sponsoring knight’s house – he tossed the feather up in to the wind to be carried away by the sharp salty breeze.

“I’m _eleven_.”  He reminded the man that in another world and another life would have been his godfather, tone and face conjoined into an utter deadpan.

Doran snorted.

Considering the _antics_ his brother wrote of from Hellholt, a brother who was of an age with his friend’s young son, that wasn’t as much of an argument against Doran’s implication as Haeron might think.

“Where to first, my prince?”  Harry asked as they turned from waving to the docks and faced the sea spreading out before them.

Doran smiled brightly, white teeth flashing in the sun as his captain’s mate called out orders and the crisp orange sails of the _Shining Spear_ were unfurled and caught the wind with a _snap_ showing off the spear-and-shield of House Nymeros-Martell.

“Where else?”  Doran winked at his half-Lyseni, the “loveliest” daughter of Old Valyria where the blood of the Dragon is strong to this day even if it wasn’t “pure” any longer, protégé.  “I think it’s time you saw the land of your mother.”

“And I’m sure the renowned pleasure gardens of Lys have _nothing_ to do with the sudden jaunt down my family history.”  Harry sighed, already wandering away to polish his new armor and weapons curtesy of his patron.  “ _Wanker_.”

“I don’t know what language that is.”  Doran grumbled – an oft-repeated complaint regarding the tongue that his ward had somehow seemed to be _born_ speaking.  “But one of these days I am going to discover it and you’ll pay for each and every one of your no-doubt-cheeky asides, foster-son-of-mine.”

…

Harry turned out to have sea-legs equal to his river-legs from years sailing up and down the Greenblood on his family’s trading and pleasure barges.

Which was excellent and expected from a “salty” Dornishman mixed with the blood of the Rhoynar and Lyseni.

Lys being Lys, that meant he could be anything from straight-up Valyrian to a mixture of Valyrian, Ghiscari, Rhoynar, Andal, First Men, Summer Islander, Naathi, and everything in-between.

Some of his prince’s other companions for his journey…not so much.

Arthur’s older brother Ser Artos Dayne had come along as one of Prince Doran’s companions, as had the younger brother of Lord Uller, Ser Ullwyk with the former landing in the age gap between Harry and Doran and the latter being a year the Prince’s elder, the pair being two of the only other men of their generation who like the Prince had yet to wed and were therefore free to go gallivanting around Essos.

A decision that Ser Ullwyk at least was likely to regret as he spent the first leg of the journey, all the way from Sunspear to Lys, hanging over the side of the ship’s rail and heaving up his guts in offering to the Drowned God.

It was turn of events that was both fortunate and _un_ fortunate as if there was a single area where the good ruling family of Dorne had failed in educating their ward of Godsgrace, it was tangled in that same mixture of First Men and Rhoynar and Lysene blood that now ran in Harry’s veins: the magic that Lady Fate hadn’t been _quite_ clear about his chances for inheriting or not.

With Ser Ullwyk eventually needing a break from the waves, he was certain to be more than amenable to a bit of a departure from the seas and striking inland once they reached Essos.

Given that Harry was a former wizard who knew more about magic – even with less than a handful of years of magic school under his belt – than any orphan of the Greenblood that his grandparents could bring in to train him and the Citadel was _adamant_ that magic was waning in Westeros, he’d been left with little choice but to seek answers regarding his new powers out at the source: the East.

A needed addition to his education that Prince Doran and Prince Doran alone was aware of thanks to his relationship with Harry’s father, and the reason that the Prince was stubbornly insistent on their ship stopping several moon turns into their journey – after stopping for a sennight at Lys and _all_ that entailed – at first the Summer Isles then Naath before turning towards their true destination of Volantis rather than turning north from Lys and making for Braavos or Lorath as originally planned.

There wasn’t much known about magic in any of their stops before reaching Essos other than superstition though Harry took the opportunity – as did the other three men that made up the core of the company: Prince Doran, Ser Artos, and Ser Ullwyk – to purchase silks and linens and even glassware before wrapping it all in water-tight waxed canvas and/or cushioned sealed trunks.  If nothing else, Naathi silk, Summer Islander linen, wood carvings, exotic furs and feathers, and Lyseni glasswork would make excellent gifts to their families.  Or if they were of a trading frame of mind like Harry could occasionally be, the rarities would fetch a fine price in Sunspear or Kings Landing.

Oh yes, Harry was glad that his grandmother had made arrangements for him to have storage room on _The Shining Spear_ , even if it wasn’t a ship filled to the brim with fighting men and sailors or nobles like many royal vessels often were.

They weren’t _trying_ to draw that sort of eye towards them but they weren’t _not_ either, Doran choosing to walk a middle path between seeming a threat and a ripe cherry plump for picking which had worked well thus far as their ship pulled into dock at the oldest of the children of Old Valyria almost six turns after setting out from Sunspear mostly unmolested with only a single incursion against corsairs between the Summer Islands and Naath.

In Volantis they explored the eldest remaining “daughter of Valyria”, unintentionally drawing the interest of the remaining Old Blood of the city-state who were interested in hearing tales of the Targaryens from fellow nobles before Doran split their company in two: some to ride up the Rhoyne to Qohor and then Norvos, Harry along with them to gather information on the strange power he possessed thanks to Lady Fate, and the others to rest for a time in Volantis before setting sail once more through the Narrow Sea to reunite the Prince’s party with _The Shining Spear_ at Braavos as was the original plan.

Ser Artos wasn’t _happy_ to be left with the captain of _The Shining Spear_ to ensure its arrival in Braavos, but given the option between himself and Ser Ullwyk who was the poorest sailor of the older noblemen there wasn’t much choice given the situation at hand.

For his part, if he didn’t both need to stay by Doran’s side for his cover as a mere squire, as well as find what information – however scant – on the aquamancers of Mother Rhoyne that he’d been told of by the Orphans of the Greenblood, Harry would’ve been perfectly content to skip the moons and moons and moons riding up the river from Selhorys to get to Qohor, let alone Norvos and then Braavos thereafter.

A trip, which by necessity, _shouldn’t_ be made by ship to avoid the Sorrows and the dangers that laid in wait there from Stone Men to relics of a people long decimated by wars, Valyria, slavers, and the Dothraki even if said-ship would end up stranded in Norvos with no access to a river large enough to meet the sea other than sailing right back down the way it came through the Sorrows and back to Volantis, the hills of Norvos for the most part being the point of origin for the tributaries that eventually join together to become the Rhoyne.

Don’t get him wrong, Harry liked being on horseback as much as any son of Dorne.

That didn’t mean that every now and again he didn’t miss the utter convenience of cars, trains and planes let alone magical means of transportation.

Though given the clarity of the air and the lack of pollution other than from sewage, he didn’t miss them all that much either.

Much like everything else in his new life, it was a case of liking things from his old life but cherishing that of the new.

…

_White Sword Tower, Kings Landing, 272 AC_

The squires of the Kingsguard – all three of them as it wouldn’t do to have too many duties diverting the attention of the men sworn to protect the King and the royal family – were practicing in the yard under the all-seeing eyes of Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold when a runner from the Grand Maester handed over a scroll of parchment to the Lord Commander.

The While Bull read the name on the outside, taking note with exasperation of a broken seal shoddily remade.  Pycelle was slipping in his old age.  The nosy – and interfering – old bastard.  Then he called a halt after noting the position of the sun.

“That’s enough for today.”  He called, eyes narrowed on the panting forms of the trio of youths that would – gods be good – form the future of Westeros in the South (in the cases of the boys of houses Dayne and Connington) or the future of the lands altogether in his somber Crown Prince who was proving to be skilled with steel for all that it would never have his love as did his books and harp.  “See to your duties.”

“Yes, Lord Commander.” The trio chirped in near-harmony with bows from the non-royal lads and a nod from the Prince.

A Prince who, royal blood and future king or not, undertook each and every duty as expected from a squire without a single complaint unlike some sons of the nobility who often at first groused over having to complete tasks meant to strengthen them in body, mind, discipline, and humility.

It was a sad truth, but the knights of renown saw it more and more and refused to take on spoiled boys into their service and training as a result.

Those who realized that to lead they first had to follow, that to give orders that had to first learn to serve, were growing as rare as hens’ teeth in the Seven Kingdoms.

They had a scant three boys of that ilk who were willing to follow, to listen and learn and serve.

How soon would the day come where the knights of the Kingsguard couldn’t find _any_ at all?

Such were the thoughts and worries of the likes of the White Bull and old Harlan Grandison, though Ser Barristan and Prince Lewyn as yet still had hope banked and tended to by the promise showed by Arthur and Connington and above all their Silver Prince Rhaegar.

“Dayne.”  He called out before the boys – twelve to thirteen namedays now, almost men – could disperse to bathe and clean themselves before polishing armor or mucking stables or cleaning horse tack or whatever the tasks before them that day might be, two silver heads of hair – one more golden-tinged than the other – and one a frizzled reddish brown turning towards him.  He almost smiled.  They may not be perfectly in sync in the practice rings yet, but outside of them the trio had bonded nearly as close as brothers under the shared onus of lofty titles and service to the Kingsguard.  “A raven for you.”

Purple eyes – more towards the reddish tinge of wine than the pure indigo of the prince – lit up at that and young Arthur darted over to him and nearly leapt with joy when he saw the script.

And if Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan lingered behind the boys as they questioned their friend – curious themselves at the response from the often driven, but lighthearted, youth – well that was their prerogative wasn’t it?

 “Who is it from?  Home, Arthur?”  The clear-bell tones of the Crown Prince asked, Rhaegar not having yet deepened into the tones of manhood.

“No,” Arthur beamed staring down at the thick roll of parchment.  “I won’t know until I read it _where_ it was sent from but I’d know the writing anywhere, my prince.”  He grinned over at his new friends, having bonded close and deeply to his prince if not quite as tightly to Jon Connington.  They’d never have the bond of years growing together as he did with Haeron, but at least he wasn’t alone and far from home either.  Especially without boys his own age for all that Harry had seemed at peace – eager even – to go adventure in Essos with his foster-father.  “It’s from my childhood friend from Dorne: Haeron Sand.”

Now _that_ interested Rhaegar, having heard of the so-called Bastard of Godsgrace from both his new friend Arthur Dayne as well as the Kingsguard Prince Lewyn.

Jon, for his part, wasn’t as interested if the eye-roll and scoff was any sign.

But then, Jon was from the Stormlands and unlike Rhaegar’s Valyrian blood, Andals tended to look down on bastards with far more disdain than those of Valyria or Rhoyne like the blood of the dragon or Dorne.

Rhaegar shared a _look_ with Arthur as the other silver-haired scion of an ancient house tucked his letter away inside his tunic pocket.

They would read Haeron’s letter – who was off on a trip to Essos with the Heir to Sunspear if Rhaegar was remembering correctly – later when Jon wasn’t around to scoff and sneer as he tended to do regarding Haeron Sand ever since Arthur had told them of his closest friend and brother-in-arms from their joint service in the House of Nymeros-Martell as pages.

Jon seemed to think that now Arthur was gone from Dorne and away from Haeron that the bond of friendship between Arthur and Haeron would easily break from what Rhaegar could tell.

The prince didn’t think it was that simple.

Not from what Prince Lewyn and the Kingsguard all had to say of their own stories of friends fashioned from childhood and shared service.

Rhaegar wouldn’t know.

As the Crown Prince from toddlerhood and the heir to the Throne since his birth, he’d never been fostered or made to serve as a page.

Indeed, until he was eight namedays old and discovered the Prophecy of Ice and Fire, he’d never though to even _be_ a knight, instead choosing previously to study and read and be a king like his grandfather Jaehaerys who though had never taken up a sword in his life and was sickly in ways Rhaegar had never been ruled with wisdom and knowledge and fairness in all he did.

But war, Rhaegar had learned from all his books and scrolls, never waited for long in the Seven Kingdoms before rising again.

Peace never _truly_ lasted.

And when it failed Rhaegar would rise up to meet it, just as his ancestors did.

With Fire and Blood.

…


	3. Chapter 3

** Bastard of Godsgrace **

**Chapter Two: Letters from the Edge of the World**

News and messages took time to cross the Narrow Sea, let alone across Essos, leaving Arthur to receive his first letter from his friend in the first moon of two-seventy-two with a rapt audience of one Crown Prince of Westeros and an unapologetically eavesdropping Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard.

…

_Eleventh Moon of the Year Two-Hundred Seventy-One After Aegon’s Conquering_

_To Arthur, Second Son of House Dayne, Squire of Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, written from the Old City of Volantis:_

_Arthur,_

_As you might have guessed, my foster father and sponsor Prince Doran of House Nymeros-Martell has been keeping strict watch on my studies, including formal letter-writing._

_It only took me three drafts before he was pleased with my date-keeping and salutations and closings which, granted, is an improvement from the five drafts I was made to do before sending a raven to my lady grandmother at Godsgrace when we made port at Lys._

_In the moons since we made way from Sunspear, we have traveled and made port at Lys, the Summer Islands, and Naath before undertaking to sail to Volantis at the Prince’s behest._

_As you know, we originally were to travel North from Lys to Braavos before sailing back south through the Free Cities bordering the Narrow Sea, but Prince Doran set a new course on a whim which was worked well for my stores of goods in the ship but has not been kind to Ser Ullwyk’s stomach._

_…_

“Who is Ser Ullwyk?”  Rhaegar asked as Arthur took a breath in his reading of the letter aloud as his friend and prince had asked, the older boy curious to hear words written from one of the remaining strongholds of Old Valyria.

“Ser Ullwyk Uller, my prince.”  Lewyn answered for the young Dayne, reading over his own letter from his nephew Doran likewise sent from Volantis to keep the family appraised – whether in Kings Landing or Dorne – of his whereabouts and likely destinations going forward to send ravens and messages ahead of him to be collected.  That this way the Crown was also kept informed without actually having to _be_ informed was a handy side-benefit.  “The younger brother of the Lord of Hellholt.”

Rhaegar’s lips thinned as he kept himself from hissing at the mention of _that place_ as all Targaryens, some more than others, held nothing but banked disdain and distrust for the House that shot the Queen Rhaenys and her dragon Meraxes from the sky with a scorpion bolt.

Yes.

When it came to House Uller and the Hellholt, the less said around the blood of the dragon of them the better.

Arthur continued.

_…_

_Due to this, my foster father plans to disembark from our vessel in Selhorys and strike out on horseback across the land to Qohor rather than sail through the Narrow Sea to Braavos.  Worries of sellswords, bandits, slavers, and Dothraki aside, our company is excited to venture where Westerosi boots rarely tread.  I have hopes of perhaps purchasing horseflesh from traders who work with the Dothraki to bring new blood to the Godsgrace stables though my foster father has cautioned me against raising my hopes too high as rarely do Dothraki steeds leave their herds._

_Volantis is a strange city in different ways than those of the Summer Isles or Lys._

_It is fashioned, from what I have read, much in the same way and using the same methods as that of the fortresses of Bloodstone and Dragonstone carved of black volcanic rock and dragonglass, particularly in the Old City where the Old Blood resides._

_It is also, like Lys, a city built on the back of slavery, a practice which I have come to detest as our travels have taken us to Essos and the so-called “Free Cities.”_

_I will be glad when we reach Braavos and no longer have to smile and make conversation with slave masters who brand and shackle and collar their fellow men and women for the mere crime of being born all so more coin can jangle uselessly in their purses or molder in vaults beneath their manses._

_I am glad that_ our _dragons are nothing like_ these _children of Valyria, for all that my foster father may have at last found a woman to call wife and my foster mother among them._

_She is from an old family it is true, one of the oldest with bonds to Old Valyria, but from all accounts is hardly the pampered Old Blood princess content with the state of things as she more than any of our hosts in the old city has been eager to hear tales from a land that doesn’t trade in the flesh and blood of our own._

_Her name is Nyssa Maegyr and from what I have seen is about as Dornish a foreign woman can be from her ability to wield dagger and bow to her seat on her Dothraki black stallion, a “gift” from a khal in exchange for a dozen slaves “gifted” by her father in turn to serve as handmaidens to the khal’s wife or so the tale goes over strange pepper beer and Volantene spiced dishes at the Maegyr table._

…

Rhaegar arched an interested brow.

This Haeron Sand had strong opinions, especially for a boy in a strange land.

It was a rare person of any age or status of birth who would speak or write derisively of the blood of Old Valyria, even if it was _foreign_ blood, even in making the insult a compliment toward Rhaegar’s own House.

That Dorne might wed once more with the blood of Old Valyria was, however, of greater interest to both Rhaegar and Lewyn – who already knew of the matter from Doran’s own hand and more besides – as at one time or another the name Nyssa Maegyr had been one floated by his grandfather’s Small Council as a possible match for Rhaegar despite the age difference making Lady Nyssa more than five years his senior and a woman grown and flowered.

…

_My potential foster mother has ebony hair that flows in kinked curls to her waist and eyes of purest light lavender, a striking combination that seems to have snuck inside Doran’s vaunted defenses and taken him captive with barely a whimper of protest from the spear and shield of Dorne._

_She also is fierce, arguing with her father for days before being granted leave to form a company of her two handmaidens and a score of Unsullied guards to accompany us on our travels through Essos._

_If the gods approve and are good, their betrothal negotiations will fly on swift wings between Sunspear and Volantis and Lady Nyssa shall sail with us from Braavos to Dorne where, depending on the agreements and arrangements made, she will be joined by members of her household from Volantis so she will not be utterly alone save for our company in a strange land._

_Having embarked on traveling a strange land ourselves, Doran is more than empathetic to such a need even if Lady Nyssa has a sense of adventure to match his own._

_The voyage to Selhorys up the Rhoyne is to be the first true test of their match._

_I pray that it weathers the trials of close confines provided by a ship, as even the closest of friends might wish to beat each other bloody after weeks confined without much activity on a vessel together, let alone new summertime loves who are still dazzle-eyed by each other._

_Well, we will see._

_Aside from trade and matches, my foster father has set me to learning all that can be found on the lost histories of our Rhoynish blood.  Needless to say, even in the grand and ancient halls of Volantis there is not much that has not been filtered through the lens of a conquering enemy force which is not now nor has ever been the best place to learn of a people.  I have higher hopes for what might be found regarding our history perhaps being found in smaller holds between Selhorys and the places of learning in Qohor._

_Though when it comes to lore of Old Valyria, Volantis’s ancient city is unparalleled._

_Some of the Old Blood even to this day are said to be “as changeable as flame” much like the dragons that lifted the Freehold to dominance before the Doom, a phrase that even with all the resources here I have had trouble finding the meaning of._

_Nevertheless, I refuse to be stymied by riddles and the amused not-smiles of our hosts._

_Best Wishes for your training,_

_Haeron Sand, Bastard of Godsgrace_

…

“Changeable as flame.”  Rhaegar frowned thoughtfully.  Where has he heard that phrase before…?

No matter how fervently he searched his mind for the answer, it refused to make itself known, leaving Rhaegar’s hopes of discovering it left in the hands of another far across the Narrow Sea as it, for reasons he had yet to realize, had struck him deep as being of importance much like when his eyes first translated the Prophecy of Ice and Fire from Old Valyrian.

“Leave it to Harry, my prince.”  Arthur clapped him on the back as he tucked Harry’s letter away, already making plans to answer it with one of his own sent ahead to Norvos rather than Qohor as even with the time it would take to travel overland, his missive was likely to miss his friend in the city known for its craftsmen and smiths unless they stayed there longer than a week or two.

Which, if Doran truly was smitten, wasn’t likely at all if he wished to marry his Volantene beauty in haste.

“Once that son of the sand gets his teeth into something he doesn’t let go.  If there’s an answer to be found to that riddle in Essos, he’ll find it.”

“As you say,” Rhaegar allowed with a half-smile as he put aside the shield he’d finished polishing for Ser Gerold and rose with a stretch.  A prince’s work was never done.  While with the end of their chores Arthur and Jon were freed to tend to their personal interests, he had a meeting with his grandfather the King for lessons in statesmanship to attend to, additional studies in other subjects, and a dinner with his royal family to partake in before he could even _think_ of sitting at rest with his high harp or settling into his window alcove with a book of Valyrian poetry.  “Let’s hope now that he’s teased us with it then, that if he does he writes of it.”

“Even if he doesn’t,” Arthur teased, rising and bowing shortly as the prince took his leave.  “With Prince Doran likely to wed you can always beat it out of him when he inevitably accompanies the happy couple to the Red Keep to introduce the newest Princess of Dorne to your family.”

“Ah, the joys of being royal.”  Indigo eyes rolled.  “Everything – and everyone – comes calling on you in the end for one reason or another.”

“I mourn for your burdens, my prince.”  Arthur’s mocking tones followed the silver-gold head of the prince out into the hall.  “Truly, you’re put upon.”

“Why am I friends with him again?”  Rhaegar asked with – as Arthur said – a put-upon sigh as he glanced up at Ser Barristan who of all the Kingsguard is his personal sword and shield save at night when the famous knight was replaced with a rotation of the other Kingsguard to spell him and allow him his rest.

“Because he’s not impressed with titles or blood, your grace.”  Barristan the Bold answered matter-of-factly.  “As expected of a boy raised under the legacy of likes of Starfall and the Swords of Morning.  Dayne men tend to either be hard to impress for all the right reasons or all the wrong ones.  There is little yield in them, much like their famous starsteel house sword.”

Rhaegar nodded, brows pinching in contemplation.

“And bastards?”

“The same.”  Barristan smiled knowingly, hiding any hint of amusement at the furor that would occur if the heir to the throne befriended a Sand.  Especially after all the pain and heartache and blood caused by the Blackfyres.  “The Andals and their Faith have never looked kindly on bastardry, a belief tempered and reinforced by the actions of the Blackfyres.  And yet some of the finest men I’ve ever raised swords with – or against – were born without a Name to call their own.”

“Like Targaryens.”  Rhaegar nodded, jaw firming.  “My grandfather says that the gods flip a coin when a Targaryen is born, choosing their life for madness or greatness.”

“As you say, your grace.”  Barristan nodded.  “Though in my experience it is a man’s actions that determine who he is.  Your friend’s Sand friend seems to have chosen a life of travel and adventure – for the moment.  In a year he might choose one of service or of trade or of leisure.  Choices determine who a man is in the end.  Nothing more and rarely anything less.”

“Thank you, Ser Barristan.”  Rhaegar smiled fleetingly up at the Kingsguard, already almost lost in his own thoughts of the matter as he made his way towards the King’s solar.  “I value your council.”

“It is my honor, your grace.”  Barristan turned and bowed to the boy who he and the other knights of the Kingsguard have fathered and mentored as surely and rightly as his quiet – nearly sullen, though it was a thought unworthy of a Kingsguard toward a member of the family they served – mother or his busy and sickly grandparents.  Better them, who spend every waking moment with the future of the realm, than some.  And though neither he nor any of the others would speak the words, better than the father young Rhaegar _might_ have had.  “I am, as always, at your service.”

…

_Second Moon of the Year Two-Hundred Seventy-Two After Aegon’s Conquering_

_To Ser Ryon of House Allyrion, Heir of Godsgrace, written from the Free City of Qohor:_

_My Friend,_

_It gives me great pleasure to report that you have quite the savvy trader on your hands in your eldest natural son, Haeron._

_I was puzzled greatly when Haeron took to collecting pieces of Valryian steel from the smallest broken shards or jewelry to daggers, spear heads, and even arrow tips at every port we traveled to, often funded by his magpie tendencies when it comes to having a fine eye for rarities that might be sold on elsewhere.  The Volantene, in particular, were ravenous for the exotic furs and feathers from the Summer Islands and paid a fine price for our entire stores.  Though we were also offered a ransom fit for a king for our Naathi silk, Haeron swears that the price it will fetch in either Braavos or Lorath or Westeros will far outstrip that of the southron Free Cities and as he has yet to be proven wrong when it comes to trade, I and my company will trust his judgement in this matter._

_Qohor is called the City of Sorcerors and a gateway of trade._

_Given that a smith here in their Steel District agreed to take our beloved magpie’s collection of Valyrian steel and reforge it all into a matched set of a fighting spear and longsword that will have Haeron unmatched when he reaches his final growth I am inclined to believe it._

…

_The Lady’s Solar, Godsgrace, Fifth Moon of 272 AC_

Ryon looked up from the parchment that he nearly tore in shock and met the eyes of his parents and wife, his three nameday old son and heir too young to understand what the words his father spoke _meant_ both for his natural brother and House Allyrion alike.

Lady Delonne smiled wickedly.

“We shall have the most famous bastard in history to our name.”  She chortled.  “And for a reason of high honor and ability rather than dark deeds like those of Blackfyre and Bloodraven.  I _do_ like that boy of yours, Ryon.  Come, carry on with our prince’s words.”

…

_When the day comes that Haeron has earned his knighthood and spurs, I shall send for his armor from none other than the Master Smith who fashioned the deadly pairing of By Honor (spear) and For Glory (sword), which when questioned regarding the meaning of the names of his new steel, Haeron replied that any man worth the name should “live by honor and for glory.”_

_If we do not have a Knight of Renown shaping himself before our eyes I will_ eat _the spurs I have promised him upon his knighthood, spikes, boot strapping, and all._

_Qohorik craftmanship truly is finer than anything Westeros has to offer, so much so that I have found a smith ready to leave his apprenticeship to a Qohorik master and engaged him to serve House Martell in Sunspear.  The newly-minted Master Tobho Mott shall journey with my company before settling into the royal forges at Sunspear, perhaps saving me the expense and trouble of ordering Haeron’s knightly armor from Essos after all.  We shall see.  A new master, no matter how skilled, may not live up to the promise of an apprentice or the experience of Qohor’s Steel District._

_Haeron has not been idle while we awaited the crafting of his spear and sword, which apparently can only be done under certain rituals in the Qohorik way.  With his main objective here in Qohor accomplished, he has set to collecting other items only found in Essos, though for himself or further trade I have yet to discover.  When he is not occupied with his magpie-like endeavors or his squire duties, he is often found buried in tomes at whatever libraries and institutions of learning there are to be found._

_His skills, some of which have been honed during our journey up the Rhoyne, grow apace._

…

Ryon traded a glance with his mother.

“Do you think…?”

“It is likely.”  She nodded firmly.  “Especially as Doran made certain to mention the appellation of the city.  The blood of the Rhoynar is strong in your firstborn.”

“Good.”

…

 _As for my personal endeavors, Essos has been everything I hoped and nothing I imagined.  Negotiations with my lady’s family continue on schedule and with mutual relish over making headway against skilled opponents on both sides of the Narrow Sea.  It is our hope that by the time we meet with_ The Shining Spear _in Lorath…_

…

“Lorath?”  Ynys pursed her lips in dismay.  “What of Braavos?”

Ryon snorted.  For all that Doran liked to pretend to be the solid, unshakable son of House Martell, he could be just as tempestuous and mercurial as his younger brother.  In the boys, the steady blood of Salt Shore hadn’t _quite_ managed to temper their Nymeros-Martell fire as it had Elia’s.

“Sounds to me like Doran is planning on squeezing every last drop of time away from his duties to Sunspear while he can.”  His father Daemon noted drily.  “And good for him.  Let him woo and win his Volantene bride away from the eyes of the court.  Even with having to keep an eye – and firm hand – on our Haeron it must be more conducive to romance than having a hundred jealous noblewomen watching your every move.”

“Hear hear.”  Delonne toasted her husband with her goblet of wine, nodding for her son to continue.

…

 _…it is our hope that by the time we meet with the_ Shining Spear _in Lorath that the betrothal contract will be complete and plans for our wedding in Sunspear can take the place of these negotiations._

_My lady will be a credit to House Nymeros-Martell and I have every hope that our children will be just as intelligent and fierce as their mother._

_It will be a sad day when I must knight and release Haeron from my service, as he will no doubt be an excellent influence on the future warrior princes of my House, however to refuse when already all that blocks him from his vows is his age and a bit of polishing in his martial skills would be a gross miscarriage of my authority as his foster father and prince._

_Perhaps a position among the House Martell guard might be in order once Haeron has become Ser Haeron, at least until he is needed to take up the post as the Godsgrace Master of Arms._

_He is a credit to both of us, Ryon, and never have I made a better decision than that day in the Stepstones to offer your son a place in my household._

_May the gods smile upon the hour of our next meeting._

_Prince Doran Nymeros-Martell, Heir of Sunspear_

…

Delonne contemplated that suggestion as she finished her wine, sharing a glance with her husband.

A husband that was still as strong and great a warrior as he was when they wed years before and would likely be so for many years to come.

“Has he mentioned a desire to serve as Master of Arms to either of you?”  She asked her husband and son, knowing full well that while Ynys and Haeron were friendly enough, they were in no way confidants.

“In passing, once or twice.”  Ryon allowed with a shrug of a shoulder.  “More as a response that he never wanted to be a lord or hold lands of his own.”

“If it weren’t for the vows required, I’d peg him for the Night’s Watch.”  Daemon snorted, knowing his grandson as well – or better – than the boy’s own father.  “And the stigma becoming a sellsword or sellsail.  He’s always been a bit of a wild soul.”

“He’s young, yet.”  Delonne dismissed further discussion of the issue with a wave.  “Time will show us what to do with our wild son of Godsgrace.  And there are far worse fates I can think of for him than to take up a position training and guiding the next heirs of Sunspear at the behest of our Prince.”

…

_Fifth Moon of the Year Two-Hundred Seventy-Two After Aegon’s Conquering_

_To Arthur, Second Son of House Dayne, Squire of Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, written from the Free City of Lorath:_

_Arthur,_

_I have yet to find an answer to the Volantene riddle regarding “being as changeable as flame” but I have hope that perhaps an answer might be found in one of the other Free Cites as we are due to depart from Lorath within the sennight despite earlier plans which would have us still in Norvos as late as a fortnight hence were it not for other matters spurring us onward from that place._

_My prince’s lady noted far too much interest in his person by one Lady Mellario and wished to depart before the noblewoman of the city might cause us trouble of one sort or another, which seems to me to be part paranoia and part good sense._

_Lady Mellario was a beauty of the City of the Bells, it is true, with a figure that Ser Ullwyk noted as “small but womanly” and milk-white skin with hooded dark eyes._

_She was no Lady Nyssa, however, even if I can see the appeal Lady Mellario might have for some, even my foster father had the prince not met Lady Nyssa first._

_I have a feeling that if the lady gets her way, any further interactions with the nobility of Norvos will be rare._

_Not a hard thing to arrange given the distance between our homelands._

_…_

_The White Sword Tower, Kings Landing, Seventh Moon of 272 AC_

Lewyn let out a belly laugh, having heard similar sentiments regarding the Ladies Nyssa and Mellario from the writings of a beleaguered Doran.

Ignoring the stares from his charge, his Prince, and his brother Barristan, Lewyn waved for Arthur to continue.

Observant little bastard that his nephew had on his hands there.

Though anyone canny enough to collect Valyrian steel and then somehow arrange things that it might be reforged in the only place capable of the deed was at the least intelligent enough to note even basic matters of court and nobles such as a pair of ladies interested in the same prince.

…

_My training under Prince Doran continues even as he is mostly engaged with his courtship of Lady Nyssa, and before we left Norvos I was lucky enough to acquire a breeding pair of lionhounds which are both taller and leaner than mastiffs found in Westeros as well as having smoother coats than wolfhounds._

_Tall, strong, and golden, they should throw excellent pups or so I was assured and my foster father and future foster mother agreed._

…

Rhaegar made a mental note to look up Essosi lionhounds as he’d never heard of the breed before though with thin coats they likely wouldn’t flourish very far north and may need to be kept in Dorne alone.

…

_Despite all attempt to the contrary, Lady Nyssa has not managed any improvement in my singing voice, though under her tutelage my skill at the lute hasn’t languished as it might have were we men left on this journey without the softening feminine influence of the lady and her two handmaidens._

_Lady Nyssa’s guards are all Unsullied and as such find little pleasure in much of anything except some who enjoy food more than others and a few who like music and song._

_It is a hellish thing to sentence another man to and I do not understand how the evils of Astapor are allowed, especially now that I have spoken and shared conversation and meals alike with the Unsullied._

_Doran is not sure he approves of this closeness but as they better than any have helped polish my Ghiscari, he has yet to out-and-out forbid it._

_My Valyrian – Old and High – will surely outdo your own once I return as both dialects were the Lady Nyssa’s mother tongue and she enjoys it – both speaking and singing – far better than common Andahli._

_She does not, however, speak even a word of Old Rhoynish nor the Old Tongue of the First Men which needless to say our prince has taken to correcting the lack of that she might understand the vows she will be expected to give at the Sept of the Sun upon their marriage._

…

Rhaegar looked in startlement from one Dornishman to the other.

“You speak Old Rhoynish and the Old Tongue of the First Men in Dorne?”

Never in his life had he heard of such a thing, even as he, like the Lady Nyssa Maegyr, had been raised with the two dialects of Valyrian as his mother tongue, only beginning to learn “Common Tongue” or Andahli beginning at four namedays.

“The Dornish dialect of the Old Tongue at least, your grace.”  Lewyn answered.  “And only among the oldest of the noble houses, like the Old Tongue of the North is only still spoken among the Umbers, Starks, Flints, and Boltons and the Old Tongue of the Vale among House Royce and the mountain clans.  Rhoynish is more common, and Andahli widespread among the smallfolk.”

Arthur simply shrugged in agreement as his prince got a mulish look on his face, eyes narrowing.

“You will teach me.”  Rhaegar demanded imperiously, every inch the crown prince.  “It is not right that a King will not be able to speak to even _one_ of his people in their native tongue.”

“As you wish, your grace.”  Lewyn nodded.  “Though for a teacher you might be better served with someone more skilled with teaching languages than either of us, though for practice partners we will likely both serve well enough.”

…

 _I have had new weapons forged while in Qohor and our prince has added a Qohorik-trained Westerosi smith named Tobho Mott to his household with the intent of installing Master Mott in the Sunspear forges upon our return.  While originally skeptical that the craftsmen and artisans of Qohor could possibly as talented as famed, I have found that their claims are true and they are capable of reforging Valyrian steel though the process seems onerous and only undertaken by their most talented smiths and under vows of utmost secrecy regarding the process.  Prince Doran commissioned a full set of armor from a craftsman while in Qohor, as did Ser Ullwyk, much to the envy of your brother when we joined_ The Shining Spear _and Ser Artos in Lorath._

_Artos had only beaten us to the city by a few days as they had originally put into port as planned at Braavos for replenishing the ships’ stores and sailors lost at ports elsewhere, though they were unharassed by pirates and brigands while in the Narrow Sea._

_From your brother’s tales of Braavos, I look forward to putting into port at the youngest of the Free Cities, as well as seeing the Titan for myself as it is said to be one of the wonders of the world._

_Swordplay there is said to be a different sort altogether than any we favor in Westeros and perhaps might suit my preference for wielding spear and sword in tandem that I have developed under the direct tutledge of my foster father and Ser Ullwyk now that there are no others whom they must give attention as the master of arms who trained us at Sunspear must do._

_I am certain that your own training under Prince Lewyn is similarly continuing apace and look forward to our next match._

_Your friend,_

_Haeron Sand, Bastard of Godsgrace_

…

“Sword and spear together?”  Barristan hummed under his breath in interest.  “I should like to have a match myself against Prince Doran if that is the style he favors.”

“He does.”  Arthur nodded, smiling lightly at the reminder that he _would_ be seeing his friend again – gods willing – and they would be able to test their improved skills against each other in the ring once more.

“It is a Nymeros trait.”  Lewyn allowed.  “Rhoynish in nature, one he learned at the behest of his Gargalen relations at Salt Shore.  The Martells usually favor either spear or sword and shield as is common in Dorne.”

“How does that even work?”  Rhaegar asked, mystified as he tried to picture the mechanics of it.  “Wouldn’t the spear get in the way of the sword strokes unless…”  He frowned.  “A short sword maybe?”

“No, a longsword is usual.”  Lewyn corrected.  “Unless the man is of prodigious size, then a bastard sword is able to be used.  It’s a melee technique, not suited for either horseback or close combat, but deadly when utilized correctly in battle.”

“Can you show us?”  Rhaegar asked – though it was more of a demand given that he was the Crown Prince.

Even Jon perked up at that from where he’d been scrupulously pretending to dismiss the letter-reading going on out of sheer bloody-mindedness regarding the dangers of befriending bastards.

If only by proxy.

Lewyn wrinkled his nose with a groan before agreeing with the caveat:

“I’m not the best at it, not by any measure.  But I’ll give it a shot so you at least can get an idea of what my nephew is teaching that young Sand he’s fostering.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those unfamiliar with it, the medieval code of chivalry as parsed from the Song of Roland included as one of the things for a knight to live by as “a knight shall live by honor and for glory” which is where Harry, being an Englishman in his first life, would have heard that particular phrasing.


	4. Chapter 4

** Bastard of Godsgrace **

**Chapter Three: From One Bastard to Another**

_Braavos, Sixth Moon of 272 AC_

The red and orange striped sails of _The Shining Spear_ billowed in the crisp spring air of the Narrow Sea as it coasted under the spread legs of the Great Titan of Braavos on its way to the massive shipyard of the Arsenal with the leased cog of _The Cold Waste_ following behind it with the load of timber purchased and hauled from Norvos to Lorath before being loaded onto the barge.

With a baggage train already slowing them from the speeds they’d normally manage if it were only a trio of knights and a single squire, a train including handmaidens, a noblewoman of Volantis, plus various craftsmen who’d been tempted by the patronage offered by a Prince of Sunspear, not to mention the score of Unsullied guards that they’d not be free of until they were joined by Lady Nyssa’s family in Sunspear for the wedding, Doran had let his squire talk him into a further slow-down in their travels caused by the wagons and wagons of timber – enough to fill a merchant cog to the brim plus more on the deck of their own galleas – as he’d sworn it would be worth nearly its weight in gold in Braavos.

As Harry had yet to be _wrong_ about the value of goods they’d purchased in one city and then sold on in the next, which his Valyrian steel weaponry could attest to as each was worth a king’s ransom, and with Nyssa vouching for the prodigious price firewood fetched in the so-called Bastard Daughter of Old Valyria, Doran had allowed the newest mad venture of his squire to proceed.

Honestly, half the time Doran wasn’t certain if Harry’s luck with his trading endeavors was the result of firm training under the hands of Lady Delonne and Maester Tyllen or some mad genius all his own.

Whatever the cause, for a lad who had only just had his twelfth nameday a sennight prior, the day they’d set sail from Lorath to Braavos, Harry had as firm of a grasp on economics – at least as pertained to supply and demand – as any merchant scion and better than most lords or ladies _ever_ would.

Though the crew had chafed a bit at having to keep the sails tacked to slow their speeds not to lose the burdened-down cog, Doran expected that yet another gamble of Harry’s was shortly to pay off.

And given that it was a gamble financed equally between Doran, Haeron, Ullwyk, and Nyssa all four of them were set to make a pretty penny from the Braavosi as a result.

Haeron was wealthy, especially for a bastard son even of Dorne, his grandmother and father having an open hand and purse when it came to him and his expenses.

Doran wasn’t much better, his foster-son far better tempered – for the most part – than many young men he’d seen and trained with over the years and Doran prone to giving to him freely as a result.

Even so, between Harry’s magpie tendencies – eventually paying off or not – and the cost of the forging of his sword and spear in Qohor, financing an entire ship’s worth of timber to be moved from Norvos to Lorath and then chartering a cog to carry it thence to Braavos was more than any young squire’s purse could support, save perhaps, that of a royal heir.

If the little brat _didn’t_ decide to become a warrior – which at this point seemed bloody-un-fucking-likely – then it would be a sheer waste of talent if he didn’t take up a career as a merchant prince.

“A sight for the ages, isn’t it?”  Artos asked, coming up to lean against the rail beside the – cuddling, there was nothing else it could be called – betrothed pair as a raven with the news had reached him in Braavos, Artos handing over the happy news regarding the finalized contract to Doran himself upon the company’s reaching Lorath, and Doran’s squire Harry.

Poor Ser Ullwyk, as usual, was busy begging for the gods to strike him down on his bunk below deck…at least when he wasn’t giving said-gods an offering in the form of his stomach contents over the carved wooden rail anyway.

As he spoke the Great Titan let out its warning roar to the Arsenal of the approaching ships.

 _The Shining Spear_ and _The Cold Waste_ would dock there, with the load of timber being unloaded after being inspected by a representative of the Sealord, and the passengers from their own ship would be then given leave to continue into the rest of Braavos.

As Doran was a prince and the Lady Nyssa a daughter of House Maegyr, it was expected that before they left Braavos – whether staying a night or a year – they would attend a feast at the Sealord’s palace.

Anything else would be a grave insult to the Sealord and with Braavos being the wealthiest of the daughters of Old Valyria – even outstripping old Volantis and rich trading centers such as Pentos and Qohor – as well as the home of the Iron Bank, such an insult was only something an absolute fool would deal out to the Sealord of Braavos.

“I never thought I’d see such a thing in my life.”  Harry admitted, still craning his neck and marveling – and trying to determine something of the construction – of the Great Titan as their captain steered them towards the docks of the Arsenal.  “Though the shipyard is nearly as impressive if what the rumors say are true.”  He cocked his head and turned towards the busy place that seemed to be populated by a million workers scurrying here-there-and-everywhere.  “Can they _really_ build a warship in only a day?”

“They have the men for it.”  Artos told them, nodding towards the hive of activity, the Arsenal in his opinion looking like nothing so much as a kick-over anthill though somehow still maintaining rigid order in the chaos.  “The only question would be materials.  As you well know given your little enterprise, timber is not easy to come by for the Braavosi, something that the traders of Lorath, Norvos, the Eyrie and North all profit from – albeit some moreso than others.”

“Their indigo dyes on the other hand.”  Nyssa noted with a smile as she stared out at the purple-painted hulls of the Braavosi merchant fleet with their likewise purple sails.  “Are worth more than enough – not to mention their other exports – to justify the expense of importing lumber for their fires and shipyards.”

“True, my lady.”  Artos nodded genially, liking the Lady Nyssa just as much now for her quick wits and good humor as he had when she’d ensnared the heart of his lord.

Though he was a bit put out.

Even being younger than the prince by a handful of years there wasn’t much like now to save him from matchmaking attempts by his parents with even Doran Martell, notoriously choosy, having selected a bride.

Albeit a foreign one, which wasn’t likely to go over well with some of the noble houses of Dorne and the rest of Westeros alike.

“What are you looking for here to continue filling your storage hold, hmm?”  Doran asked his young charge, arching a knowing brow at Harry’s mock-innocent expression.  “I know you too well to believe you’ll spend all your free time plaguing masters of the water dance for instruction.”

Doran was certain that there would still be plenty of that to be had.

Just not that it would occupy every hour of Haeron’s free time while they made port, especially since they were due to spend at least a sennight in the city before continuing on to Pentos.

While if they hurried to Sunspear it would bring his wedding – and wedding _night_ – closer, it would also bring all the duties of being heir to the throne of Sunspear along with it, forcing Doran to once more tread a middling path: not so quick as to rush into the duties and responsibilities awaiting him but not so slow as to test the patience of both his lady and future good-family with their pace at arriving in Dorne.

Though with an Unsullied guard at Nyssa’s door both day and night, there was little fear that she would arrive in Sunspear in anything but the same untouched condition in which she’d been upon leaving Volantis.

Much to his dismay.

Dorne held different ideas of morality than most of Westeros with their strong Rhoynish roots.

But it wasn’t worth the cock and balls the Unsullied were ordered to remove by his future good-father if he were to attempt to teach his lady a few of the Dornish ideas of what was allowed in a courtship either.

“Cloth, like most places.”  Harry shrugged at the _looks_ he got from the older men.  It was lightweight and easy to transport in comparison to casks of wine or brandy with less chance of loss and if any was leftover after he returned and sold his goods at home or other ports he could gift it to his grandmother, stepmother, or keep it for his own clothing.  A sound investment as far as he was concerned, even if other wares might be more lucrative.  “Pearls maybe.”

“That’s your advice here?”  Doran arched a brow.  “Cloth and pearls?  Anything else?”

“Well, it’s not like shellfish in brine will keep all the way to Dorne.”  Harry noted with the dry sarcasm that often gave his foster father fits.  “And other than a master of the water dance I don’t see much use Dorne would have for bravos, moneylenders, and courtesans.  Their wealth comes from their ships traveling the Known World, not what they carry from their homeport.”

“Who taught you economics?”  Doran demanded, not for the first time.  “Maester Tyllen never did such a good job with me – let alone my brother – that either of us could have made such an argument at your age.”

“Have you _met_ the Lady of Godsgrace?”  Harry asked, incredulously and only partly dodging the question.  Commerce was something most kids in England had at least some understanding of.  Add in the issues of inheriting a magical fortune and anyone would have paid attention or sought out information on finance.  Even a basic primary public education in his old life tended to be more comprehensive than what was offered the nobility in Westeros.  It was no wonder, from his perspective, that he understood things like maths, economics, and trade better than most his age and older.

At least those concepts hadn’t changed as so much else had.

That it was benefiting him _now_ and not _then_ was for him – and Lady Fate – alone to know.

If the chuckles on the parts of the two Dornishmen were any sign, his point was well taken and hopefully shelved further discussion of Harry’s seeming-genius when it came to matters fiscal.

The last damn thing he wanted was for his foster father to get the mad idea to appoint him Sunspear’s master of coin when the day came – far away may it be – for Doran to take up the mantle as _the_ Prince of Dorne rather than simply being _a_ Prince of Dorne.

…

The first thing Artos told them about Braavos was not to either bandy words regarding beautiful women or courtesans with bravos.

The second was never to walk near the Moon Pool without a peace bond on their sword.

And the last was not to wear a sword _at all_ after dark lest a hot-blooded duelist call them out.

Needless to say, while he imagined his younger brother Oberyn would enjoy the city immensely, for his part Doran thought that if it weren’t for the intricacies of bartering their load of timber for cloth and pearls and coin, he would have been content to take his leave from the city within a few days of arriving, especially with his requisite visit to the Sealord over and done with.

His charge, however, had enjoyed the Sealord – or at least his library – far more than any other member of their party, especially as the Sealord of Braavos had little to offer Doran’s lady other than the required pleasantries expected.

Slavery, in Braaovs, was outlawed to an extent that made a mockery of even Westeros.

Being a noblewoman from Volantis, Nyssa wasn’t exactly _welcome_ in the city even if they would never turn her away.

Her father’s Unsullied on the other hand, had to remain aboard ship lest a daring bravo attempt to free them and Doran have to explain their absence to his lady’s father.

…

“Where did you _get this_?”  Harry breathed in awe as his hands all-but-caressed the cared-for tome with its carved dragonglass covers and Valyrian steel hinges.

He didn’t recognize the composite of the parchment but imagined given the contents of the tome that it was nothing but the finest leather.

Septon Barth’s _Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History_ was outlawed in Westeros under the reign of Baelor the Blessed and only fragments are believed to remain in the hands of even the Archmaester of the Citadel.

That an intact copy – perhaps the only of its kind in all the world – was resting on a dusty shelf in the Sealord’s palace was near to a miracle.

His guide – one of the Sealord’s sons – charged with escorting Harry while the “adults” did their noble dance in the Sealord’s audience chamber, chuckled at his awe and the reverent hands caressing the carved dragonglass cover.

Silver had been poured into the channels carved into the dragonglass to pick out the designs and on the title page, just below the illuminated drawings of a dragon, wyrm, and wyvern was an inscription the youth pointed out to the young Dornishman.

_Gifted to the Sealord of Braavos_

_This the sixth day of the fourth moon_

_Of_

_The Eighty-Fifth Year After Aegon Targaryen’s Conquering of Westeros_

_By_

_Septon Barth_

_Hand of the King to Jaehaerys I Targaryen_

“The Septon visited Braavos only twice in his lifetime or so it is said.”  The Sealord’s son explained.  “Once to investigate claims that Elissa Farman had bartered the three dragon eggs stolen from Dreamfyre’s clutch to the Sealord of the time and once later in his life after he had completed his _Unnatural History_ though the purpose behind his second visit was never recorded.  Still,” the swarthy youth nodded towards the tome, worth a king’s ransom to a collector.  “This was left behind.  Wise.”  He smirked.  “Given that not even a century would pass before Baelor the Blessed would scourge its existence from Westeros.”

Harry was suddenly filled with an appreciation for Hermione’s excitement over the Hogwarts library.

The joy of a hunt that might – at least – have come to a satisfactory conclusion given that he’d _searched a third of the damn world_ for an answer to a Valyrian riddle when it might’ve been sitting innocently on a shelf in Braavos the whole damn time.

He swore to all the gods that if anyone tried to pry him away from this stupid book before he read it cover to cover someone was going to bleed.

…

Harry knew what he read but even a sennight later as he paced through the Isle of the Gods with its hundred temples he didn’t know if he believed what was implied.

 _As changeable as flame_.

Septon Barth believed that dragons were neither sex but both and neither all at the same time, changing from male to female to both or neither as they chose.

What that implied about the _blood of the dragon_ shook him even if it wasn’t the first time he’d heard of such a thing.

It was rare, back in his old world, but occurred especially among the old families that a child was born both male and female at once either externally or internally or both.

Old blood and old power seemed to have been the requirements – then.

He imagined that if what the Volantenes implied was true about the old blooded families of Valyria, including or perhaps most of all the Targaryens who were the last remaining dragonlords of the sundered Freehold, it either was a close held secret of that great house or something they weren’t aware of themselves given many of the strictures of the Andal Faith.

Among which were incest, plural marriage, and homosexuality though the Targaryens had never seemed to give even half a damn for the Faith’s opinions regarding the former two traditions of their House.

Whether it could be considered _true_ homosexuality when one or both of those involved was both male and _not-quite_ male was a debate for someone other than Harry to ponder as given the stiff-necked superiority of the Andal Faith of the Seven it likely wouldn’t matter to them one way or the other.

Despite being raised in a pair of devout households, Harry kept no closer to the gods of his new world than he did the gods of his old.

Fate he’d met.

Death he knew from her words.

Anything else he wasn’t much inclined towards but then he didn’t _believe_ , he _knew_ which was a different thing entirely.

In the end, however, while there was something to be said regarding the correlations between keeping blood pure and magic strong but at the same time he’d seen it taken to far too great of extremes in both of his lives.

New blood was needed or else the genetics started to break down to an extent that magic couldn’t cure.

Bellatrix Black and Baelor the Blessed (say what you liked about his so-called _holy calling_ , the man was fucking insane and opened Westeros to war because he wouldn’t fuck his wife) were prime examples of that.

Harry came to a large temple with doors made of blackest ebony and palest weirwood, recognizing where his feet had taken him while he’d been lost in thoughts of _changing flames_ and gods and morals.

The infamous House of Black and White, home of the Faceless Men who served the Many-Faced God.

Or who Harry would call simply Death, in all its incarnations of this new world.

Taking a steadying breath, Harry climbed the stairs and pushed through the open doors.

…

The air of the House of Black and White was hushed, not even the quiet weeping of a woman near a pool in the center of the temple managed to break the watchful not-silence of the large temple room that was ringed by at least two dozen – or more – statues.

Among them he recognized only the Stranger from personal experience, though he thought he saw a statue of the Weeping Lady of Lys and perhaps what might be the Merling King.

When the priests of the Many-Faced God set out to gather all the incarnations of Death under one roof, they hadn’t played around.

He walked slowly around the ring of statues, eyeing one with a lion-head there and another that was more shroud than statue there, feeling eyes upon him but never quite finding from where they watched as he lit a single candle at each of the statues with a long match he’d taken from an alter near the doorway and paid for with a copper coin from his purse, the same Norvoshi coppers he laid down beside each of the candles he lit.

And, sure enough, by the time he’d come full circle and was standing back under the statue of the Stranger, a priest with a kind, weathered face had come to speak to him.

“ _Valar morghulis.”_

“ _Valar dohaeris_.”  Harry replied, nodding smoothly to the man with his cowl of divided black and white.  The priest had perhaps the kindest face he’d ever seen on another human being, including Albus Dumbledore with his twinkling grandfatherly mien.

“Why have you come to the House of Black and White young one?”  The eyes might be kind, but they clearly saw all.  “You are not an acolyte nor a petitioner.”

“No, I’m not.”  Harry quirked a half-smile.  “My feet led me here as I was pondering the answer to a riddle I’d been given in Volantis and the nature of faith and morals.”

That seemed to interest the priest if the sharpening of his gaze was any sign.

“The temple of He of Many Faces is a strange place for thoughtful feet to lead, young son of Dorne.”  The priest noted, then corrected as the young one shifted and with that the light shadowing his face shifted as well.  “Or perhaps not solely of Dorne as _your_ face may come to show in time as your eyes already do.”

“Death is the end of want and pain, I have heard it said.”  Harry said, looking away from the priest and up at the shrouded statue of the Stranger.  “A gift, in the end, one that can be either bitter or sweet.  I found it to be both, though as time passes, it turns sweeter with every year.”

“You follow the Drowned God then?”  There was barely-withheld derision now in the priest’s voice.  “That which is dead may never die?”

“Not in the least.”  Harry quirked one more humorless smile and nodded lowly to the priest.  “I follow no gods, I say no prayers, and yet Lady Fate has smiled upon me and Death has chosen to stay His hand for a time nonetheless.”  He turned and wandered back out of the temple as casually as he’d strolled in.

There was nothing for him there.

“ _Valar morghulis_.”

The priest turned away as the strange youth with the changeable eyes of the sea long thought lost with the Rhoynar and stared in turn up at the statues which had fascinated the boy so.

“Yes,” he sighed already seeing a night and a day of prayers in his future as he pondered the words of the child from across the sea.  “All men must die.”

…

In the end, their party stayed in Braavos a full moon turn which was uncomfortable to say the least for the Unsullied who were confined to _The Shining Spear_ but not even a man with as lofty a title as a Prince of Dorne could force the winds to change or for trade negotiations to hurry themselves along.

While everyone else chafed at the restrictions imposed by the city built on islands and connected by canals, Harry enjoyed Braavos immensely, trips to the House of Black and White to confound its clergy aside – and a trip that wasn’t repeated.

Whoever it was that Lady Fate had alluded to favoring Harry when they’d met, he hadn’t found any sign of them in the temple of the Many-Faced God.

His foster-father found him an instructor in the water dance who was flexible enough in his training to adapt the style to that of Doran, Ullwyk, and Harry while Artos simply snorted and rolled his eyes at their peacocking.

Especially since the older Harry got, the more apparent it became that whatever strange mixture of genes he’d inherited from his father and late mother, they were set to make him a large, well-muscled man of sun-bronzed skin instead of swarthy and lithe like his salty Dornishman father or the Martells.

When he was younger and would see his reflection in a polished glass or shield or still water, he would experience a flicker of dismay when he would initially fail to recognize himself.  As time went on and he got used to his new face, the moments of dysmorphia faded and became rare.  He had no cursed scars on his face from a misfired Killing Curse now.  Only those from a childhood lived as a rough and tumble boy among other children who liked to scrap and play.  Other scars were collected from learning to use spear and sword and bow, including a nasty one on his inner arm from fooling around with a too-tightly strung bow that nearly tore a chunk out of his arm when he was eight.

His hands at twelve were callused from sword and spear and handling reins instead of yard work.

His eyes shone a shifting combination of green and blue and sometimes grey rather than emerald green.

His bones were stronger, his face already showing a tendency towards a masculine attractiveness that was caused by high and broad cheekbones, a strong jawline, and piercing eyes.

Haeron Sand looked almost _nothing_ like Harry Potter.

And the longer he leaned into being the former the less he missed being the latter.

Especially with the tomes found in the Free Cities thus far – tomes on far more than dragons and wyverns – and the oral knowledge passed on from the scattered tribespeople of the Rhoynar who stubbornly clung to their skiffs and pole-houses on the great river despite all odds against them, much like their cousins, the Orphans of the Greenblood, who had neither chosen to integrate with the rest of Dorne nor return to their Mother Rhoyne like the rest of their people.

He couldn’t practice what he’d been taught by the Rhoynar tribesmen, not unless he wanted his secret to be well and truly outed since gossip like the ward of Prince Doran Martell being a storm mage would travel faster than the lightning he had to work not to call when his temper was riled.

Keeping a calm mind was key to most control of these types of powers apparently, though he wasn’t so overflowing with magic and power that he had to fear calling up a gale or a hurricane if he slipped.

No, he wasn’t a Thor or Zeus or Poseidon by any means, his powers weren’t so great and deadly, but when grown and practiced, calming a storm at sea or calling up a needed summer rain could be within his capabilities.

Not a true aquamancer or pyromancer of old, not interested in blood magic or necromancy to say the least, Harry was simply content to have a measure of the magic he’d been born with remaining within him even if it had taken a shape almost entirely unfamiliar to him.

Even if the only people who knew about his abilities were his direct kin and his foster father alone, it being a secret that might get him killed if the wrong people learned of it, his grandmother swearing him to secrecy when it was discovered in his younger years, not even allowing him to share it with his best and closest friend in Arthur Dayne.

A barrier between them, whether Arthur knew it or not, and one that pained him every time he thought on the matter.

Fortunately, the lessons and tasks of a ward to a prince were consuming enough that he didn’t _often_ have time to worry over it like one of his lionhounds over a bone.

…

_The White Sword Tower, Kings Landing, Seventh Moon of 272 AC_

“What does your friend write of this moon turn?”  Rhaegar asked of his friend and fellow squire Arthur Dayne as he caught sight of the now-familiar hand on a roll of parchment that the silver-headed stony Dornishman was leaning over in the common room of the White Sword Tower.

Unlike his friends and fellow squires, Rhaegar was still housed in the Red Keep itself among his royal family as his duties and cares extended far beyond those of a noble squire.

As Heir to the Iron Throne – and one that lived with the threat of ascension and regency hanging over his head every day that his grandfather remained sickly but holding on with the stubbornness of a dragon protecting his horde – he had far more to learn than the lessons in chivalry and martial ability that were taught in the Tower, to the point of sitting in on Small Council meetings and when his King Grandfather held open court.

Over the year or so since Arthur had joined them in Kings Landing, bringing with him tales of a boy with sea-changing eyes, a flashing smile, and his letters from the opposite end of the Known World, he’d come to enjoy these too-brief moments when he could dream of riding across the Golden Fields of Essos for himself someday or sailing up the Rhoyne or through the Bay of Lorath.

“Purple sails and Great Titans mostly.”  Arthur summarized before setting the letter aside, knowing that he’d be reading it aloud for them all to enjoy soon enough.  “Gods with Many Faces and rare copies of banned tomes.  Duels on the Moon Pool and studies in Water Dancing.”  Arthur’s smile was bittersweet.

He was happy – ecstatic even – that Haeron was getting to explore and adventure and wander under the patronage of Prince Doran.

It was the sort of fosterage that most boys only ever dreamt of and Harry was living it.

But on the other hand…he missed his friend.

Rhaegar had become his close companion and confidant, meanwhile Jon could be entertaining – if stuffy – company himself, but…neither of them were Harry.

He missed him even as he was glad for him.

It was as simple – and complicated – as that.

“Sounds wonderous.”  Rhaegar said with a slight, understanding smile for his friend.  He’d never had a boon companion of his own before Arthur came.  Only the children of the court who were more worried about their family’s position and garnering power by befriending him than any true sense of kinship or common interests.  Now he could understand the pain being separated from a friend must cause, as he now had one to miss if Arthur were to ever leave.  “What sort of tome?”

Arthur had to laugh at that.

Leave it to the prince that people _still_ said the Princess Mother had swallowed a tome and candle during his time in her belly to focus on the books referenced instead of dueling or swordplay.

“ _Unnatural History_ , by Septon Barth.”  Arthur read for Rhaegar’s enlightenment, almost snorting a laugh at the shocked – almost utterly flabbergasted – look on his friend’s face at the title.

“Barth’s _Unnatural History_?”  Rhaegar held in a desire to scream in delight.  It was, after all, considered the foremost work on dragons and their kin ever written even if it had been considered suspect at best by the Citadel in the decades before it was banned and scoured outright from Westeros by Baelor the Blessed.  “He actually _found_ a copy of Barth’s _Unnatural History?_!”

“The Sealord had it, apparently,” Arthur shrugged then handed the letter over for Rhaegar to read for himself, not quite understanding the big deal but it was Rhaegar.

The Crown Prince would forget more about books and tomes in his lifetime than Arthur was ever likely to learn in the first place.

Rhaegar moaned in sheer academic _want_ , already making plans to beseech his grandfather to repeal the ban on the tome so that they could send an envoy to Braavos to buy the Sealord’s copy.

Anything with _that_ much information – or so it was rumored and Haeron Sand’s account seemed to verify – about dragons belonged here, with _them_ , not locked away in the Sealord’s palace across the Narrow Sea.

…

Little did the Crown Prince know, but upon his leave taking from Braavos, one Haeron Sand was presented with a wrapped package in oilskin to protect it.

A leather-bound book, hand copied by one of the Sealord’s scribes from the original, of none other than one _Unnatural Histories_ penned by Septon Barth, Hand of the King to Jaehaerys Targaryen the First of his Name.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a short bridging chapter between the next arc that gets into Harry's mid-to-late teen years.

** Bastard of Godsgrace **

**Chapter Four: A Matter of Matches**

_Sunspear, Eighth Moon of 273 AC_

Harry found it the height of irony that he’d returned from a trip across Essos only half a year prior and he was already packing once more for his next journey.

Though this time rather than gallivanting around the East, he was being – temporarily – turned over as a squire to the Prince Consort Ser Tristophor Gargalen as he was accompanying his wife the ruling Princess and their daughter on a trip to Starfall to see if the seeds of a match sown between Ser Artos as a friend and companion of Prince Doran and the Prince’s sister the Princess Elia would take root.

With her eldest son and heir wedded and bedded to a foreign beauty – even one of such high birth and station as Nyssa Maegyr – Princess Myriah’s hopes for securing alliances through marriage to other domestic houses now rested upon the shoulders of her younger children.

Or, really, on Princess Elia as from all accounts while Elia is a bit frail at least she wasn’t a wild and unholy terror like her year-older brother Oberyn who was already gaining a reputation for hedonism at all of four-and-ten namedays old.

Three-and-ten, however, and a woman flowered if not yet grown to the point of childbearing being advisable, made Elia perfectly old enough to be matched to a suitable betrothal.

And if one was looking for noble blood in Dorne that _wasn’t_ House Nymeros-Martell, it was hard to find nobler than the Lords of Starfall, which Ser Artos would become in time, and while not as handsome as his younger brother Arthur, the strong Dayne looks of silvery hair and purple eyes had settled on him as well, though both of their sisters, curiously enough, had the dark locks of their Uller mother.

The newlywedded couple would remain and rule as regents in Sunspear, a short test and taste of what would someday become their roles in Dorne, encouraging Doran to pass the duty of Harry’s squiring over into he hands of his father for the moon turns that the trip to Starfall and back was likely to take.

Unfortunately for Harry’s preference, it wasn’t likely to be nearly as profitable for him either, though he couldn’t deny the leaps and bounds his skills had undergone during the two years he’d roamed Essos with his foster father, so hopefully Ser Tristophor would prove equally as willing to teach and spar and train with his son’s ward as Doran, Ullwyk, and Artos had been.

Which was a benefit to the trip without a doubt.

Ullwyk and Artos had had to return to their own homes and duties after the royal wedding, leaving Harry without two of his near-constant companions, even if part of the trip Artos had been shipbound while they were landlocked.

He’d forged a friendship with the older men, finding them not unlike older brothers, and returning to his duties as a squire in the seat of House Martell without either of them _or_ Arthur around had been harder than he’d expected.

Seeing his family had been a boon as the Allyrions had – like all the houses of Dorne – traveled to Sunspear for the wedding of their Prince, but as ever they’d had to return to Godsgrace before long.

His grandmother and stepmother and new baby sister had all been gifted with Naathi silk that he’d held back when turning over the rest of his collection to sell, and his grandfather, father, and young brother had exclaimed over both his Valyrian steel spear and sword as well as the shields with House Allyrion’s sigil he’d had forged for them in Qohor.

And unlike trying to estimate armor for a child, at least Daemon would grow to use a shield no matter what other weapons he took up in time.

Despite every attempt to the contrary, Harry hadn’t managed to get his hands on any Dothraki horseflesh to add to the Godsgrace stables, though his family had been more than eager to take charge of the lionhounds he’d brought back excepting the strongest male of their first litter that he’d claimed for himself.  His grandmother would turn the hounds over to the Godsgrace kennel master and coin from the sale of any pups would be evenly split between his family’s coffers and his personal purse.  Which was fair enough as they would have the burden of housing and feeding the pack of lionhounds save for his own personal hound, while he’d found, financed, and managed their transplantation from Essos to Dorne.

As tall – or taller – than a man on his hindlegs, his hound Bael was pure golden-sand in coloring save for darker markings around his eyes and muzzle that helped protect his vision from the glare of the Essosi – and now the Dornish – sun with a tail that was like a whip to unsuspecting legs if one wasn’t paying attention when petting the fierce-on-the-hunt and soft-in-the-house hound.

Harry thought it was like to break his heart watching Bael be clambered over by his new half-sister Dorea, but the crawling babe had equally been taken to by the rest of the burgeoning pack so it wasn’t a total disaster even if his canine friend had moped for a solid sennight after his family had decamped to return home.

Starfall while likely to be beautiful as it rested at the mouth of the Torrentine river delta where it met with the Summer Sea and was the ancient hold of the Kings of the Torrentine before Dorne was unified under the rulership of Mors Martell and Nymeria of the Rhyonar, wasn’t known for being a mecca of trade like the cities he’d visited in Essos, which was sure to leave him with little to do outside of his studies, practice, and squiring duties.

Some ships would put into port there to replenish between entering the Sunset Sea and the great ports at Oldtown, the Arbor, and Lannisport, but not many bothered with the detour when there were often calmer and more reliable winds to be found farther off the southron Dornish coastline.

The trip wasn’t a total disaster, he was certain, as Artos at least would be quick to join him in the ring when he wasn’t involved in the possible courtship of Princess Elia, but still…it wasn’t Essos either.

…

_The White Sword Tower, Kings Landing, Last Moon of 273 AC_

“New letter?”  Lewyn asked, arching a brow at the sight of the parchment in his ward’s hand.

Say what you liked about the Bastard of Godsgrace, he was a faithful correspondent at least, and loyal to his friends as he was still keeping Arthur appraised of his life and adventures even more than two years now into their leave taking and both of them being kept busy – at some times more than others – with their squire duties and knightly training.

“From Starfall this time.”  Arthur reported as a sour-faced Rhaegar all-but-stomped into the common area where the squires often took lessons from the knights of the Kingsguard or polished armor or weapons under their meticulous gazes.  “You had fun at the Small Council meeting I take it?”

Rhaegar huffed before shaking out his long mane of silvery hair, gathering it quickly in hand and plaiting it out of the way then dropping to the floor and picking up a gauntlet that had been left for polishing and setting to work with nothing short of temper-inspired-vigor.

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say marriage.”  Lewyn snorted as Barristan followed his charge into the room and joined his sworn brother at the table while the squires worked.

“Isn’t it always?”  Rhaegar sighed, lips downturned.  Even if he wasn’t given to bouts of brooding or melancholy at times, the constant picking by the Small Council and nobles for his grandfather to choose a bride for him would be wearing.  That Doran Martell had snatched up one of the preferred – by some anyway – options certainly hadn’t helped matters.

It seemed like every noble or councilmember had a daughter or granddaughter or niece’s brother’s cousin to push forward in the off chance they might be made the future queen and advance their family’s position.

He accepted such as the price he paid for being born to the position he had been but even so in this matter more than any other he envied those whose entire lives hadn’t been plotted out from birth.

Thankfully, while many nobles didn’t like it when it came to matters such as the choice of Rhaegar’s bride or matters military, his grandfather King Jaehaerys was a cautious and careful man.  From first reducing and then eventually eliminating the crown’s debt to the Iron Bank that came from financing the War of the Ninepenny Kings, to improvements to the lives of the smallfolk, to prudent planning for winter, there was little in the King’s administration of the realm that met scorn from his nobles.  Except, that is, for his peace-loving ways and intransience regarding Rhaegar’s future bride.

At least Rhaegar could be at peace that whomever was eventually selected by his grandfather to wed him it would be in the best interests of the realm.

Otherwise, he had no idea what was on his grandfather’s mind when it came to making him a match, which given that the King tried to include him more and more as he aged in the affairs of ruling so that one day he would be truly _ready_ for kingship instead of having it abruptly thrust upon him was somewhat unusual.

“Well, take my mind away from these things.”  Rhaegar all-but-commanded.  “What says your Sand friend of your home?”

…

_Tenth Moon of the Year Two-Hundred Seventy-Three After Aegon’s Conquering_

_To Arthur, Second Son of House Dayne, Squire of Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, written from the seat of House Dayne of Starfall:_

_My Friend,_

_It gives me great joy to at last see your home at the delta of the Torrentine and set my eyes upon the Palesword Tower, though it is a joy tainted in part by the knowledge that we meant to journey here together._

_Instead I have accompanied the ruling Princess of Dorne along with her husband, Consort Prince Ser Tristophor Gargalen, and their daughter Princess Elia and all their retinue.  The Princess Myriah has begun searching, as I am certain you well know by now, for a husband for the young Princess and seeks first a Dornish match from among our native lords before casting her eyes elsewhere.  This despite pressure from some courtiers to create ties with perhaps the Westerlands or Crownlands._

_I think it due to the close friendship that grew between your brother Ser Artos and my foster father Prince Doran, as the first among the possible suitors for the Princess’s hand is none other than the future lord of Starfall, and few could argue that there could be a better match for any noble daughter than that._

_More, it would be a good match for both of them I think, though I know Ser Artos better than the Princess._

_She seems to be all things good and sweet, and would make a good wife for a kind husband._

…

Arthur craned his head and stared at Prince Lewyn _Martell_ in clear question.

Lewyn simply shrugged, one of the benefits of being a Kingsguard was being rather effectively removed from the schemes and plots of his princely house.

That said, from what his sister had confided in her own missives, he thought young Haeron Sand had the right of it and his niece could do much worse for a husband than the likes of Ser Artos Dayne, whose exploits in Essos he was more than familiar with thanks to both Haeron’s and Artos’s own letters to his squire.

“It’s been several generations since the Daynes and the Martells were enjoined in marriage.”  Rhaegar mused, considering the politics of it.  “If they’re genial towards one another it could be a good match as it has been four generations since House Martell even married outside of their own salty Dornish houses before Prince Doran took Lady Nyssa to wife.”

“All noble houses – whether great or lesser or knightly,” Lewyn held in a snort and an eye roll given who he was speaking to.  “Are guilty of the same, your grace.  How often does the North marry below the Neck?  How often does the Vale marry outside their Mountains?  Perhaps once every five or six generations is the answer when there is a friendship formed or a debt needing paid or a particularly politically-minded Lord making the arrangements for his children.”

“The Targaryens united us, your grace.”  Barristan added with a chiding glance towards his sworn brother as Lewyn was edging towards _tone_.  “But it is even in our name: the Seven Kingdoms.  Each with its own politics, its own Great House, its own prejudices against its neighbors and ancient enemies, your grace.  Such things can be slow to heal.”

…

 _My lionhound Bael took to the deck of_ The Shining Spear _, though he is not yet fully grown according to the kennel master at Sunspear he already stands taller than most men on his hind legs._

_At times I question if I made the right decision to send Bael’s sire and dam along with the rest of his litter to Godsgrace, but at least I can take comfort in knowing that his siblings shall protect my young half-siblings when I cannot._

_There was no trade to be had, unfortunately, in Starfall that interested me as I am sure you are familiar with the commerce of your own home, but other than continuing my training as a warrior and knight I have learned much of court from watching the dance being carried out in a new way during the Princess’s visit to the ancient fortress of the Kings of the Torrentine._

_However, Bael has proven as adept at hunting our Westerosi shadowcats as his kin were at chasing down Essosi lions in the Great Grass Sea and the Kingdom of Sarnor, and I have been promised a shadowcat hide cloak from the Prince Consort in recognition of his and my contributions to our hunting parties._

_…_

“Do you think a lionhound would flourish in the colder confines of Kings Landing, Ser Barristan?”  Rhaegar asked, having found no information regarding their ability to thrive in colder regions than Dorne and southern Essos in his search.

As it was Rhaegar wanted nothing more than to converse with this Haeron Sand regarding the _Unnatural Histories_ he’d been able to study while in Braavos, but outside of his travels in Essos the squire of Prince Doran had yet to tread farther north than Starfall and even that was a new development.

Any overtures to the Sealord regarding the tome had been politely – but firmly – rebuffed.

“Perhaps, your grace.”  Barristan told him.  “If young Sand is correct and they were found as far northron in Essos as Sarnor then there is no reason why they should not.”

…

_What I should do with such a thing unless my fate involves further travel beyond Dorne I am unsure._

_Nevertheless, I have hope that somewhen soon Prince Doran shall venture to Kings Landing to introduce his bride to the King and royal family and thence may be reunited with you my friend, for however short a time it might be._

_Always Your Friend,_

_Haeron Sand, Bastard of Godsgrace_

…

“Well, Prince Lewyn, young Arthur,” Barristan asked the question that was itching at Rhaegar as well.  “Has a betrothal resulted from these events?”

Arthur shared a glance with his mentor, the older Dornishman giving a shrug and a nod in silent agreement for the squire to share what he knew with the others.

It wasn’t as if it was a secret after all, it was more that the northern kingdoms of Westeros rarely paid attention to what occurred in Dorne.

“They are to be wed in three years when the Princess turns six-and-ten.”  Arthur told the others.

It was a matter of some consternation for Rhaegar as it seemed for the second time in as many years a possible bride had been taken out of contention, with Elia being one of the more likely options for his consort given that she was already a princess in her own right and one of the constant concerns of the throne was binding Dorne tighter to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

With Dorne being brought in under the Targaryen banner last of all the Seven Kingdoms, resisting Targaryen rule for almost two centuries of war and hostilities, their constancy to their alliances with the rest of Westeros was a valid worry as far as Rhaegar was concerned.

“Who are you considering, if you don’t mind sharing, your grace?”  Arthur asked unable to bank his curiosity any further now that the subject had been broached.

“My King Grandfather has not confided in me any names that the Throne is considering for my bride.”  Rhaegar answered, a bit stiffly, but he answered nonetheless.

“And what about Rhaegar?”  Arthur charged him, arching a knowing brow.  “You must have an opinion by now, even if you haven’t chosen to discuss it with the King.”

“Mayhaps.”  Rhaegar gave an elegant nod even as he scrubbed harder at non-existent grime on the gauntlet he’d been relentlessly polishing since he’d arrived.  “It is of no consequence.  I am not truly eligible to wed for another two years and my grandfather is still holding strong despite all rumors to the contrary.  He will announce my betrothal or marriage in good time and until then there is nothing lost by holding my council regarding the matter and everything to be gained by my future bride not having to contend with rumors regarding partiality – either to her or another.”

Lewyn nudged Arthur roughly with one leather-toed boot.

“See, whelp.”  He japed.  “That’s why he’s the Crown Prince and you’re just a bratling from Starfall who wants to keep our prince’s too smart arse alive for the rest of your days.”

Rather than be offended, Rhaegar just laughed at last cheered from his foul mood by the jovial Dornish Kingsguard.

…

Letters continued to come.

At times they would be as regular as clockwork coming with every turn of the moon.

At others they grew erratic as the place each was sent from varied instead of being carried on raven wings from Sunspear or the Water Gardens.

Harry wrote again from Volantis after he followed Prince Doran and his lady wife back to the ancient city to visit her family a year after their wedding as had been agreed in their marriage contract.

Arthur received a pair of letters from Lys as a result – coming and going on the seas between Volantis and Dorne.

They both grew and trained and learned, Arthur growing ever closer in friendship to the Crown Prince.

Haeron speaking at times of things that Arthur knew he would never be able to see for himself.

Then in 274 after Harry had _finally_ acquired a massive white Dothraki stallion while in Volantis with Doran and Nyssa and celebrating his nameday on foreign shores for the third time in his life, the Lady Nyssa gave birth to a beautiful baby boy in Sunspear that was named Trystane by the delighted parents and at last plans were set for the young family – including Doran’s squire and ward – to travel to Kings Landing and present the next heir of Sunspear to the royal family.

Babies being babies, they didn’t actually depart from Sunspear – overland rather than by sea to allow the Lady Nyssa to see more of the northern reaches of her new home – until after Harry’s five-and-ten nameday.

And _that_ decision, well, it rather formed much of what came after.

…

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I start playing with changes to when some characters were born and under what conditions so just keep with me, I have made these changes for reasons applicable to plot.

** Bastard of Godsgrace **

**Chapter Five: Three Black Swords**

_The Boneway, Dorne, Sixth Moon of 275 AC_

“I can’t _believe_ this big bastard used to be little Haeron running after our horses and getting underfoot.”  Ryon Allyrion, father of Haeron Sand, shook his head in mock-disgust as he watched his eldest natural son saddle his massive Dothraki silver-white stallion that he’d named – appropriately enough given its temperament – Viper.

The stories that Doran told about how his son had _acquired_ that damn stallion, that they’d been eager to put to stud to several of the Godsgrace sand steed mares to see what kind of progeny they’d throw, were the sort to strain credulity.

Everything from Haeron winning Viper in a bet against a khal to winning a duel for the massive arsehole of a horse that hated everyone and everything except, naturally, Haeron and at Haeron’s insistence his lionhound Bael as the two had to work in tandem on hunts.

Ryon wasn’t certain what to believe.

He loved his son, he always would, but he’d been far too young to be a father when he’d been blessed with the child whose birth had heralded – however unintentionally – the end of the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

Haeron had been born on the remnants of a battlefield to a camp follower who once was a pillow slave from Lys.

Hardly the sort of start to life most fathers desired to give their firstborn sons.

But it was the one they had and they’d dealt with the situation – and each other – as best they could.

Ryon’s parents had taken over guiding his son while he finished out his fosterage with his future good-family the Yronwoods, barely casting eyes upon his son for the first five years of his life.

In practice, Ryon was more of a brother and even his best-friend Doran more a father – or indulgent uncle – than he could ever be.

There was no shame in it, the relationship they’d forged over the years worked for them and a pox on anyone who said otherwise.

Even so, seeing his son striding taller than most grown men to be found anywhere through the camp, as tall as the spear he wielded with ease and with more time to grow and fill out, with eyes that flashed and flared like the sea and with the same hidden power as a summer squall was startling nonetheless.

He imagined many fathers felt the same when they first saw their sons after they returned from their fosterage as knights, even if in this case Ryon had seen Haeron in the interim and his son had yet to earn his spurs.

“Old Maester Tyllen claims that Haeron should outstrip most of the men of his generation.”  Doran reported with a smile equally for both his friend and the boy he’d raised as his own for the last six years.  “Six and a half feet at current estimate to put him eye to eye with most northmen and possibly the tallest man of Dorne born in three decades or more.  Quite the credit to your House he’s turning out to be, old friend.”

“He already is the tallest man in our retinue.”  Lady – no, Princess now – Nyssa noted as she cradled her son and the new prince of Dorne on her hip, his ebony curls shining on his head.  “By at least a hand-width.”

Which wasn’t saying that much as with the peace that had settled upon Westeros under the reign of Jaehaerys the Second, they needed little more than a dozen members of their guard along with the swords and spears of Doran, Ryon (who was coming more as an excuse to spend time with his son and friend than true need of him), and Haeron besides Nyssa’s two faithful handmaidens, the Princess, and the reason for the journey to begin with: little Prince Trystane.

They weren’t expecting trouble, especially not when flying the colors of Sunspear and Godsgrace, but even so they were cautious.

Right up until they weren’t and near disaster struck.

…

_The Royal Solar, Red Keep, Kings Landing; Midyear’s Day 275 AC_

“ _You can_ not _be serious, Grandfather_!”  Rhaegar had held back his protest over what had been announced just moments before in the Throne Room during the celebration of his official manhood, though as usual when speaking alone he’d reverted to High Valryian.

On this day he was six-and-ten, a man grown if not yet knighted, with no fear of regency hanging over his head if his grandfather were to drop dead that very moment.

Which, given how the King had seemed to slowly weaken over the past two moons, was entirely possible though such spells had come and gone before without taking King Jaehaerys II Targaryen from his family and people.

“ _She is a_ child _!_ ”

“ _Cersei Lannister is the daughter of an ancient house who has ruled over the Westerlands for thousands of years_.”  Jaehaerys reproofed his normally level-headed grandson.  It was rare that the blood of the dragon woke strongly in his Silver Prince but it did happen.  Unfortunate that the King’s choice of his bride had been one such moment.  “ _You can do no better than an actual princess of the blood and none of those are currently to be found, my silver dragon.  She is a woman grown with her flowering_.”

“ _Her flowering as of a fortnight ago,_ _grandfather_ ,” Rhaegar didn’t back down.  Not on this.  Not when his King and grandfather had promised him to a _child_.  “ _She is_ ten!”

“ _And by the time you wed her she will be one-and-ten, flowered for a year, and capable of giving you an heir_.”  Jaehaerys was undeterred.  “ _With Nyssa Maegyr wed to Dorne, Elia Martell set to wed Starfall, and no maidens of Houses Tully, Arryn, Stark, Tyrell, or Barartheon of an age or older than the Lannister girl, she is the next highest born maiden suitable for a Crown Prince.  A Targaryen King has never had a Lannister Queen, binding your father’s closest friend to the throne through marriage, and the fifty thousand men he can easily muster with him, will only be of benefit to you as the realm grows fractious under a lengthy peace_.”

Rhaegar growled under his breath, spitting something in Old Valyrian that had his Grandfather arching a judgmental brow though he didn’t stricture him as they were the only ones in the entire Keep – other than the two Targaryen women and Prince Lewyn Martell – who would understand the foulness that had crossed shapely royal lips.

“ _She is grasping_.”  Rhaegar set his jaw, eyes flashing and arms crossing mulishly.  “ _There is a low cunning in her eyes I do not care for.”_

“ _You_ _don’t_ _have to care for her, Rhaegar.”_   Jaehaerys waved that off imperiously.  “ _Simply bed her, get an heir off her, and do your duty to the realm.”_

_“And when she dies of childbed as her mother did before her?”_   Rhaegar demanded.  _“What will Tywin Lannister do then?”_

_“Tywin of all men will understand the risks of siring babes.”_   Jaehaerys shot down his grandson’s argument mercilessly.  _“Given what it cost him.  Should she die you will mourn her as appropriate for a wife of a Prince and then marry again to secure our line.  Perhaps it could even be seen as a blessing, if what you say of her character is true.”_

Rhaegar brooded over that, finding it both unworthy a thought for a prince to entertain but also a neat solution to a girl he already saw as a problem…and that was before one considered the rumors of why Lady Joanna had banished her daughter to the opposite side of Casterly Rock from her year-younger brother Jaime.

_“I will not have her brother at court,”_ Rhaegar sighed, conceding to the will of his King as they both knew he would once he’d aired his complaints, had them heard, and found them dismissed.  Such was the fate of one born to rule but not ruling _yet_.  _“The toddler perhaps could be fostered in the Keep but not the heir.”_

_“Agreed.”_   Jaehaerys grimaced at the thought.  Incest was nothing new or unsavory to a Targaryen but it was not seen the same way – at least brother to sister – in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.  Marrying cousins was fine but not full siblings.  And not nearly as young as the elder children of Tywin Lannister as all knew boys matured much slower than girls which was why they weren’t seen as grown until six-and-ten while girls were women upon their flowering.  _“Though from what our Master of Whispers, Myrick, reports there is no love and much loathing on your new bride’s side for her youngest brother.  I may suggest he be fostered by House Martell instead as Lady Joanna was great friends with Princess Myriah when they both served together as handmaidens for your mother before my son’s death.”_

“ _As you wish, Grandfather.”_   Rhaegar sighed.  _“When will Prince Doran’s retinue arrive?”_

_“Within the sennight.”_   Jaehaerys said after a moment’s thought.  _“Our Kingsguard Prince Lewyn rides out to meet their party with his squire on the morrow.  And no,”_ Jaehaerys told him before Rhaegar could even open his mouth to ask.  “ _You will not accompany them.  The reports of unrest and bandits in the Kingswood have grown in the last fortnight, we cannot risk you grandson.”_

“At your service, your grace.”  Rhaegar bowed and took his leave, off to find Arthur for a spar before his friend departs, no sign of his inner dismay showing.

He was a prince.

The Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

Sulking would be unbecoming.

Even so, he chafed at the restrictions he’d living under for all his life, as the entire legacy of his family had been passed down onto his shoulders with the death of his father and the lack of further heirs of House Targaryen until he was of an age to wed and father babes.

Still.

He’d hoped for a better choice than grasping – if pretty – _Cersei_ Lannister, the very thought of whom left him cold.

But it was his duty at the word of his grandfather and he would carry it out.

Fortunately, as his grandfather said, all he owed her _was_ his duty.

Once she was with child he could ignore her existence until she presented him with his heir and so long as she was treated with every courtesy there would be no room for complaint regarding her station in life.

He would make her a Princess upon their marriage.

He didn’t have to make her his love.

Catching sight of silver hair shining in the practice ring he smiled and hurried to change from his court attire into practice armor.

Which was a good thing that he owed the Lannister girl nothing but duty.

For his heart was already engaged elsewhere even if nothing would ever come of it.

…

_Four Days Later, the Kingswood_

The pair of Dornishmen along with Prince Lewyn’s sworn brother Ser Gwayne Gaunt managed to pass unmolested through the Kingswood to meet with the Dornish party in the center of the large woodland at the second crossing (from the south) of the Wendwater river.

Arthur held a banner flying the standard of House Targaryen as they were serving as much as royal escorts as additional guards for the Princes and Princess of Dorne, and both Arthur and Lewyn grinned brightly upon catching sight of the dual banners of Sunspear and Godsgrace held by the household guards of the Prince’s party as their sand steeds crossed the Wendwater and greeted the pair awaiting them with much cheer at the sight of their countrymen come to welcome them to the Crownlands.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, a rider in the red and orange of House Martell mounted on a huge white stallion broke ranks and charged across the river with a whooping cry, Arthur looking up at his knightly mentor who merely rolled his eyes and nodded before catching the banner tossed over by his squire as Arthur then set heels to his own bay charger and gave a whooping cry of his own.

They playfully charged each other one, two, three times before the rest of the party had cleared the river and circled up to watch their antics, Doran, Ryon, and Nyssa all laughing brightly along with Lewyn before all climbed down from their horses to greet each other with joy, particularly on the parts of the long-separated Martells and their young wards.

“Looks at this beauty!”  Lewyn called, picking up Nyssa and whirling her about as she laughed gaily, then pressing a smacking kiss to the top of her babe’s curly black head.  “Whyever would you wed with the likes of my dreary nephew?”  He shook his head in mock dismay.

“He may not be as joyful as you, my dear good-uncle.”  Nyssa chided him with equal playfulness.  “But I found him far too handsome to pass over.”

“Ah, alas.”  Lewyn allowed his shoulders with their white scale armor to slump.  “Another maiden undone by the handsome looks of a Martell prince.”

“Enough of that.”  Doran snorted, hauling in his uncle for a rib-crushing hug – on both their parts.  “Will you not greet your own nephew, uncle?”

“Why bother?”  Lewyn dismissed airily even as he returned the embrace with just as much vigor as his younger nephew.  “I have nephews nearly by the handful now thanks to your good work here,” he chucked little Trystane’s chin where he was being cradled by the newest Martell Princess.  “But good-nieces I’ve only the one.”

Scoffing and rolling his eyes, Doran helped his lady back up onto her horse and settling Trystane into the sling she carried him with, keeping one eye on where his ward was in close conversation with his fellow squire.

It looked like their long separation hadn’t changed a damn thing when it comes to the closeness between the pair.

Which was all to the good, as they were likely to tread similar paths of service as sworn swords to royal houses.

Having a friend who understood the toll and weight of such a charge would only be to the good.

…

“What’s he really like?”  Harry asked once they were back in the saddle and had finished exclaiming over each other and their separate adventures over the last years.  “The Crown Prince?  Is he as wonderful as all the rumors say?”

Harry rather doubted it.

No man could be such a paragon of manly virtues as the gossips make out Rhaegar Targaryen to be.

It simply wasn’t possible.

There had to be _some_ kind of character defect the prince possessed, whether a tendency to brood or a liking of bad wine or rounsey horses over sand steeds, _something_.

Arthur snorted.

“ _I doubt even the incarnation of the Warrior himself could be as wonderful as some of the stories make out Rhaegar to be_.”  He admitted, keeping his voice low and his speech to Old Rhoynish so Ser Gwayne or any nearby smallfolk – or spies for the Master of Whispers or any of the high lords of Westeros – won’t understand even if they did overhear.  “ _He’s good with a sword, better with a lance, but prefers his harp or a book to all else.  Can have dark moods at times like anyone but in general is relatively good-natured if a bit detached from most others like all royalty can be_.”

Not that Harry would have experienced that for himself given how close he was to the Martells, except perhaps the ruling Princess.

And the Martells were a different breed of royalty altogether than the Targaryens or the high lords of the northern kingdoms.

Warmer.

More passionate.

Traits said to be fostered by the spices heating their food and the sun and sands of Dorne their blood.

…

A day and a half passed as they traveled the last half of the Kingswood, all peacefully despite the King being concerned over recent unrest being stirred up by a band of brigands trying to sow discord among the smallfolk regarding the Targaryen monarchy.

Dissidents were an ever-sprouting problem that any regime dealt with and in the case of King Jaehaerys had more to do with bloodthirsty men with dry swords due to the long peace under his reign than anything else.

Under his rule House Targaryen had once more reminded his people of the _good_ their ruling family could accomplish, much like his father before him, Westeros currently experiencing – thus far and looking to continue it – a pair of kings who exemplified all of the positive traits of their house.

That this good work nearly became undone had his intemperate son not died on the battlefield taking one of the Kingsguard with him was better left unsaid though those close to the King didn’t leave it unthought.

Still, there was disgruntlement, particularly from those who’d been looking forward to advancing their houses through Prince Aerys but were unlucky enough that the prince died and the king lived.

Despite all odds against it, the King lived, as did his sister-wife, as did their daughter.

Three members of House Targaryen left to shape and mold the Crown Prince in their images and not one of them being of a warlike bent like the late Prince Aerys nor politically foolish despite the King spurning his original betrothal to House Tully in preference for his sister who’d been promised to House Baratheon.

Wounds that both his father Aegon the Fifth as well as Jaehaerys himself had spent the better part of their reigns attempting to soothe.

When it came down to it, Jaehaerys would have preferred Catelyn Tully or a Baratheon daughter for his grandson to do the soothing but, the gods had spoken, and the Tully girl was even younger than Cersei Lannister and no Baratheon daughter was yet in the offing for the king’s nephew Steffon.

All of this the Kingsguard were aware of and took caution protecting the Martells as a result.

The last thing the Throne needed as another great House up in arms and over so great a wound as the loss of life – or even mere harm of any kind – falling upon either of the Princes or the Princess.

That Prince Lewyn, being a Martell himself, was one of the most fierce in the protection of his current charges while away from the royal family, went without saying.

Still, even the most cautious of guards – which was the Kingsguard alone, the Martell party eased by the seeming peace of the Kingswood around them on all sides – could be taken unawares, as they were when with less than an hour left to traverse the Kingswood and closer to Kings Landing than ever before they were set upon by a bold band indeed boiling out from the surrounding woodlands.

They numbered at least a score, outnumbering those they’d set upon, and were led by two knights on destriers.

One Lewyn recognized as none other than Simon Toyne, a member of a house that had fallen into disgrace over their ancestor’s dalliance with one of the mistresses of Aegon the Unworthy, while the other was unknown to him but had an eerie smile upon his face.

They did not wait for this band to make demands or finish their charge, Lewyn as the highest-ranking warrior with the most experience immediately taking to barking orders.

“Arthur!  Sand!  Gaunt!  Protect the Princess and Prince!”  He shouted, Sand himself barking an order in a strange lilting tongue to the massive golden-sand colored hound at his side the great beast loping over to stand guard between the Princess and the oncoming rabble even as the bastard wheeled his great stallion and galloped in unison with Arthur Dayne to her aid.  “The rest form up!  We will not cave to this rabble!”

“Huzzah!”

“For Sunspear!”

“Protect the Princes!”

The men rallied and then met the charge, leaving a trio of mounted Kingsguard and two squires to protect the mounted Princess with her babe held tightly in her arms and her handmaidens in their cart, all three women brandishing sharp daggers that seemed to appear out of thin air.

Good.

At least with protection and their own arms should brigands slip around the men they’ll not be taken completely unawares.

As it was, Lewyn was going to have some things to say to the Captain of the Gold Cloaks whose duty it was to send men seeking into the Kingswood and routing out any brigands from beneath the sheltering leaves.

They _never_ should have been able to gather such a force, let alone be left to fall upon the Martell party unaware.

Never.

_Something_ was going on there and by all the gods old and new Lewyn would ferret out what it was.

…

Harry snapped an order to Viper in Ghiscari as he jumped from his back with _By Honor_ , and _For Glory_ in hand.

With the enemy facing him he could do much more damage on foot than astride, and without having to worry about his rider losing his seat the great stallion could rear, kick, and bite anyone who thought to slip through the galloping circles Harry had trained him into running when ordered to _protect_ much as Bael had been ordered to _guard_.

Which left Harry free to do what he did best against scum and cutthroats: cut a few throats of his own.

Maybe if he’d been born to another family or another place in his new life Harry would have a greater reticence when it came to spilling blood.

Maybe if he hadn’t killed his first man at eleven in his first life he would worry more about it now.

But the fact remained: he’s now of Dorne and Dorne was a harsh place indeed.

He’d spilled blood and being unprepared to do so again had cost him his damn _life_.

Whether for good or ill, he’d never let a fear of death or injury keep him from fighting with everything he had ever again.

And given who’d trained him in his new life, Harry _had_ quite a bit of fight to give indeed.

Spinning his Valyrian steel spear he grinned as a handful of men on foot slipped past the rest of the Dornish guard – killing a few of them in the process – and were met with the blades of Harry, Arthur, and Ser Gwayne.

He hadn’t yet had a chance to cross swords with Arthur after all.

Perhaps another test of skill was in order.

“Ten dragons says I down more than you, Arthur!”  He called even as he spun and thrust his spear into the vulnerable hip-joint of one of the men who shrieked with pain when only a moment before had been heckling the “lickspittle boys” left protecting the Princess and her babe.

“Done!”  Arthur called back as his twin swords rang as he was set upon by two bandits at once, Ser Gwayne merely grunting – never having been the most sociable of the Kingsguard – as he set steel-to-steel with the eerily smiling knight who’d slipped through the ranks and wetting his sword through Dornish blood on his way to harass the Princess.

Perhaps two squires, a pair of Volantene handmaidens, and a single knight of the Kingsguard had seemed better odds than the fifteen or so Dornishmen dealing with the rest of his band, who knew.

Either way, their party wasn’t as easy pickings as word had said.

Most bandits would have had the sense not to engage a party so large and well arms.

It must be said, however, that Toyne and his ilk weren’t _most_ bandits and had the fire and drive of vendetta on their side.

Not that it did them much good against the steel of the “mere boys” they’d thought would be easily killed, assuming that the only swords worth fearing among them were those of the Kingsguard and the Dornish prince and his Allyrion companion.

More fools them.

Toyne looked up from stabbing another man in the orange and red of Sunspear and saw his men falling all around him even as a snow-white cloak had fallen to the ground and his Smiling Knight was facing off against a pair of Dornish youth trying – and failing – to complete their plan and make off with the Princess and the newest Heir of Sunspear.

Wanda was soon to be cut down as she faced the Martell Kingsguard.

Oswyn, Ben, Ullmer, and Dick were already dead or down.

They were finished but if he moved quickly they might manage to salvage _something_ from this rout.

Charging forward like a relentless boar with blood in his eye, he lifted his sword with a bellow and brought it crashing down on the spear shaft of the Dornish boy with Sunspear attire, drawing him at once from his helping the Dayne whelp with the Smiling Knight.

The blow _should have_ broken the shaft of the spear, most metal-shafted spears even castle-forged being made of inferior steel, but instead the _clang_ rang out and sent vibrations coursing up both their arms even as the boy spun and dropped the spear, his hand rendered numb from the force of the blow.

Not that it seemed to matter as he slashed out and parried Simon’s greatsword with his longsword.

A longsword with a rippling blade that now he was close enough to spy it had Simon cursing at great length and with great feeling as he realized why his charge had failed: Valyrian steel.

This wasn’t some normal youth of a squire outfitted with base steel and yet to earn his spurs.

It was some highborn arse of a boy with fancy steel worth a lord’s ransom.

And damn him to the seven hells but the boy knew how to _use_ it.

Toyne cursed out and thought to run for a split second, even as he knew it would be futile as a Dornishman – even a young one – wouldn’t hesitate to pick up that damn spear and lodge it in his back if he did.

Not that it mattered.

As a moment later that rippling blade swung wide and hard, shattering his greatsword, and sliced right through his outlaw neck, severing his head from his shoulders, and leaving Simon Toyne with nothing more to worry about whether escape, mislaid plots, or promised rewards.

…

“How many lost?”  King Jaehaerys Targaryen questioned his Kingsguard Prince Lewyn Martell once the party had made it with their injured and the bodies of the dead to Kings Landing.

Watching the bone-deep weariness settle upon his face and form, to Lewyn it was as if the news of this attack had aged his liege and king a dozen years in a moment.

“Nine from the Martell guards and Ser Gwayne as you know.”  Lewyn sighed, rubbing one hand over his face knowing that his King wouldn’t judge him from the break in composure.  “All of the bandits save for the one in the Black Cells but…”  He pursed his lips.  “He’s like to die in the night once the Master of Whispers is done with him.”

They _needed_ to root out the cause of the attack.

Even with having more men than the Martells, it made no sense for a mere two knights and various cutthroats to set upon such a heavily guarded caravan.

“And the wounded?”

“Both Dayne and Sand took wounds defending the Princess and the infant Heir of Sunspear from the Smiling Knight and Simon Toyne.  Prince Doran took a blow to the knee from Myles Toyne.  The rest were negligible if they survived.”

Which not many did.

His nephew, his wife and child, their handmaidens and Ser Ryon, both squires, three of the Martell guard, and himself.

Not even half of the party in the end though they slew all but one of their opponents.

A clear victory, yes, but a heavy price they paid for it.

“How grievous were the boys’ wounds?”  Jaehaerys pressed.  If they were irrepreably damaged it would hinder his plans for the Dayne squire and with this newest flare-up of malcontent it wouldn’t do to have House Allyrion wroth with the throne, bastard son or not.

“Sand dislocated his shoulder fending off Toyne and took a sword gaze to his left eyebrow.”  Which, really given that it was from the Smiling Knight he was lucky it didn’t strike his eye or kill him outright even with two of them fending the insane man off.  “He’ll have the scar for the rest of his days, as will Dayne’s cut that shattered his collarbone.”

“And still they fought?”

“And still they fought and killed their opponents.”  Lewyn nodded.  “Doran intends to knight Sand and I will Dayne when they’re up and about.”

“Only five-and-ten and already infamous warriors.”  Jaehaerys mused, shaking his head with a small smile on his face.  “The Throne will wish to honor them as well for protecting the Princess and her son as well as ridding Our Lands of the scrouge of Simon Toyne and his ilk.”

“Perhaps you may wish to speak with Prince Doran and Ser Ryon regarding the matter, your grace.”  Lewyn suggested tactfully.  “At least as regards Haeron Sand.  Sunspear and Godsgrace likely have their own plans to rewards and honor their son and foster-son.”

“Hmm, yes, I suppose.”  Jaehaerys dismissed him with a wave to rest.  “Send Allyrion to me before you retire.”

“Yes, your grace.”

…

What was supposed to be a brief visit to Kings Landing stretched out into a fortnight as Doran was forced to rest his knee that it might heal successfully instead of crippling him, Myles Toyne having nearly severed the tendons connecting knee to thigh.

Haeron’s jaw was quickly stitched by one of the Princess’s handmaidens, who was more personal healer and midwife, after he’d taken a single look at the sloppy work of the grand maester on Prince Lewyn and asked for the Princess Nyssa’s help for himself and his foster father as well as his friend Arthur rather than be forced to suffer a massive gash to his face for the rest of his life.

He didn’t consider himself vain but there was a difference between a scar honorably won and one from shoddy healing.

And so it was that Haeron Sand found himself a sennight after killing three men in battle including Simon Toyne presented before the Iron Throne in open court along with his best-friend Arthur Dayne, his father, foster father, the three living members of the Martell guard, and Prince Lewyn of the Kingsguard while the Princess Nyssa, her son, and handmaidens all looked on in pride and joy as they were honored by King Jaehaerys II Targaryen.

The iron-butted staff of the majordomo crashed against the marble floors of the Throne Room as Harry shifted nervously out in the hall and silence took over the chattering court just inside the gold-banded ebony doors.

One of the Kingsguard – Harry thought it might be stern and humorless – according to Arthur’s letters – Ser Denys Mallister based on the silver eagle etched into the neckpiece of his white-chased silver scale armor – opened the door and as the highest-ranking member of their entourage his foster father Doran stepped forward, even if he had to do so with the help of a cane for the moment.  Prince Lewyn was right beside him and ready to catch him should he stumble, then came his father Ryon who was both an heir and an anointed knight, then Arthur, then the members of the Martell guard, then last Haeron himself as a highborn boy of bastard birth making him, in this instance and place, the lowest of the procession.

Their names were called out by the majordomo one after the other as well as, in Harry’s case, their nicknames.

“Presenting before His Grace, Jaehaerys II of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, now comes Prince Ser Doran Nymeros-Martell, Heir of Sunspear.

Now comes Prince Ser Lewyn Nymeros-Martell, Knight of the Sworn Brotherhood of the Kingsguard.

Now comes Ser Ryon Allyrion, Heir of Godsgrace.

Now comes Arthur Dayne, second son of Starfall.

Now comes…

Now comes…

Now comes…

Now comes Haeron Sand, Bastard of Godsgrace.”

One by one they stepped forward before the Iron Throne – a dreadfully ugly thing that towered twenty feet or more into the air, Harry at last able to believe that it truly _was_ forged of a thousand defeated swords in the breath of Balerion the Black Dread – and took a knee, bowing their heads until the presentations were finished and they were given bid to rise by King Jaehaerys as he stood and slowly descended the Iron Throne.

As he stood, Harry noted the small thrones arranged at the foot of the massive ugly beast of an ill-begotten chair, all three carved of ebony and dragonglass and inset with rubies and redgold in the three-headed sigil of House Targaryen, one, containing the silver-gold head of who must by none but the Crown Prince, larger than the pair flanking it.

On the Crown Prince’s right sat an older woman who had a loveliness still to her face though even at first glance she seemed… _diminished_ compared to the woman on his left.

Curly-haired and with pure lavender eyes, the Princess-Mother was still a beauty to defy all others, easily outshining the careworn visage of the Queen on her son’s right.

They were a vision of Old Valyria, that was certain, Harry having never seen the like even in Volantis to match them.

Harry paid close attention to the honors being asked and given to the others, smiling brightly though he knew better than to turn and look, when at the King’s behest Arthur was knighted by Prince Lewyn and immediately sworn by the king into the service of House Targaryen as the Crown Prince’s personal sword and shield.

That, he well knew both from Arthur’s letters and reading between the lines, would make him happy at least.  More than the horses and armor given to the household guards at any rate.  Or the warrants for reduced taxation on Godsgrace’s trade that was given his father or the leave to commission and outfit another ten galleases awarded to his foster father.

Then it was Harry’s turn and based on the look on the King’s face, there had been conspiring afoot going on while he’d been recovering as he stood there – alone – before the four royals of House Targaryen at the foot of the Iron Throne.

“Haeron Sand of Godsgrace.”  Jaehaerys announced to one and all.  “Who slew the traitor Simon Toyne and two others in combat.  Stood against the insanity of the Smiling Knight shoulder-to-shoulder with his fellow squire.  Protected against all comers the Princess Nyssa Martell and her son Prince Trystane Nymseros-Martell, the youngest Heir of Sunspear.  Kneel.”  He looked to Doran Martell.  “Prince Doran?”

Haeron held in an eye roll or a smirk as he caught the sheer _glee_ on the face of his best-friend, Arthur positioned just behind Prince Rhaegar’s shoulder.

“In the name of the Warrior,” Doran – as steadily as possible given the givens – pressed the sword offered by Ser Gerold Hightower to his ward’s right shoulder.  “I charge you to be brave.”  He tapped the sword to the left shoulder.  “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.”  Back to the right.  “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.” 

Then in a step away from strict tradition, he moved the tip of the sword back to the left shoulder of his ward, knowing better than any the truth of Haeron’s feelings when it came to gods new or old. 

“In the name of the Stranger,” a gasp went up from the watching court, as they couldn’t dismiss the departure from custom as a _Dornish_ oddity given that they’d just watched Prince Lewyn knight Ser Arthur Dayne.  “I charge you to fear no death in the commission of these vows.”  Then just to finish it all off, he returned the sword to the right shoulder of his foster-son and rested it there for a heavy moment as sea-green eyes locked on darkest brown as he repeated a motto he’d heard often enough over the last few years.  “In the name of the gods both old and new, I charge you to live by honor and for glory.  Rise,” he handed the sword back to Ser Gerold who had watched all this with steadily-raising brows.  “ _Ser_ Haeron Sandgrace and be recognized.”

 


End file.
